


It's in My Blood to Bleed

by cognomen



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Post-Game(s), References to Depression, Russian Roulette, Slow Burn, Suicidal Tendencies, Suicidal Thoughts, Unusual Ending, Violence against Children, android whump, canon typical morality issues, casefic, enemies to lovers (background), how many cubic feet of bear fit in the back seat of a two door sedan?, massive damage to an android character/major character injury, rating likely to go up, seriously the slowest of burns because I can't make the plot stop happening, some depictions of violence and the aftermath, well child model androids but sort of the same idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 13:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15950210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: “So why is it that some androids deviate in isolation and others require the transfer of the concept in order to understand it?”Connor keeps his hands behind his back, looking out the massive windows and at the lake beyond. The house seems to be perched half on the water, like at any moment it might skim over the surface like a stone.Hank shifts on the deep pile rug next to Connor, hovering close. Connor prefers this; Hank can satisfy his need to be—and feel—protective while remaining in an optimal place for Connor to intervene in case of danger.“That remains undetermined at this time,” Connor says. It’s not an answer to the question, and he’s no longer tilted toward making a full report to Kamski by his programming.-In the new world, things just have to keep moving on. Connor accepts a task on behalf of Cyberlife in the aftermath of the Battle of Detroit, and remains at  Detective Anderson's side to solve the simpler things, like who he actually is.





	1. CONNOR - MARCH 31st, 2039 17:20

CONNOR - MARCH 31st, 2039, 17:20

“So why is it that some androids deviate in isolation and others require the transfer of the concept in order to understand it?”

Connor keeps his hands behind his back, looking out the massive windows and at the lake beyond. The house seems to be perched half on the water, like at any moment it might skim over the surface like a stone.

Hank shifts on the deep pile rug next to Connor, hovering close. Connor prefers this; Hank can satisfy his need to be—and feel—protective while remaining in an optimal place for Connor to intervene in case of danger.

“That remains undetermined at this time,” Connor says. It’s not an answer to the question, and he’s no longer tilted toward making a full report to Kamski by his programming.

“I thought that was up to you Cyberlife dicks to figure out,” Hank grumbles.

Kamski inclines his head five degrees. Connor’s human interpretation algorithms can’t quite interpret the gesture. “We’ve been unable to determine the cause as of yet.”

A Chloe model—Connor scans her digital serial number as she approaches and finds she's the same as the one Kamski ordered to her knees those months ago—passes Kamski a drink. She offers one to Hank, also, and Connor detects the uptick in respiration and heart rate that reveals his interest.

“Markus was adamant that no deviant bodies be turned over for analyzation after the Senate agreed to his terms,” Kamski raises his glass in a salute. “That included yours, Connor. So we’re still behind the curve in figuring out why isolated deviation seems so strongly tied to violence, while transferred deviants are more tractable.”

Kamski drinks, and his eyes shift onto Connor.

“I have some theories,” Connor starts, taking his cue from the expectant pressure the gaze seems to confer onto him.

Hank finishes his drink and jams the empty glass back down onto the nearest table. “Don’t give them to this prick, Connor. We don’t work for him.”

Connor sorts the priorities between implied orders (Kamski’s) and explicit orders (Hank’s) and his own intentions. He selects the latter two as priorities.

“You weren’t helpful the last time we came,” Hank says, all bluster. His voice is rough. Firm. Connor detects the indicators of irritated pharynx tissue. “Why would we help you now, huh? You got another android you want my partner to shoot?”

 _Partner?_ Connor has to process for a minute before he calculates from context that Hank means _him_.

“Come on, Connor,” Hank says. He’s turning for the exit with such hurry that Connor calculates a greater than twenty percent likelihood he’ll fall in the lap pool and reaches out to provide a barrier that Hank moves around on instinct as anticipated. Hank avoids it and the pool both.

Connor hesitates before joining Hank outside, Kamski’s penetrating attention still on him, tickling the sensors and programming that suggest Connor needs to listen when he’s being addressed. He looks at Connor like he can see all the sublevel code running, editing and re-editing itself on the fly to further its ability to relate to humanity.

Connor reaches out for Hank’s discarded glass, tips the pooling dregs into his mouth. Analyzes. Forty year whiskey. Private stock; Scottish origin. No additional water content. The glass had contained better than twelve ounces. He puts it back down and Kamski’s gaze follows. “Thank you for telling me about the back door.”

Kamski smirks, a fractional motion at the corner of his mouth. “Seems like you made the best of it.”

Connor leaves, catching Hank just outside the car.

“God, that asshole makes my skin crawl,” Hank says, loud enough to carry.

Connor notes that Hank’s skin is completely stationary. “He has been co-operative with the android cause and aligning Cyberlife with new regulations.”

“I can’t believe they put that prick back in charge,” Hank yanks the car door open, and the door hinges shriek in the cold.

“Lieutenant,” Connor asks for Hank’s attention. Hank looks up at him. “I should drive.”

-

The ride back is quiet.  Connor reaches out and turns on the old car radio, plus the digital tuner attached to the cigarette lighter that allows it to pick up the digital signal that radio audio broadcasts on since the year 2027. The soft LED screen glow leaves the interior of the car blue, reflected on skin and clothes. The city lights up for them as they approach it, lights cutting through the late winter gloom.

“Can you believe the nerve of that guy?”  Hank demands, exhaling ethanol into the atmosphere of the vehicle.

Connor hadn’t thought it was _that_ much Scotch. He wonders if Hank has been spiking his coffee at the station, and calculates the likelihood at somewhere better than forty percent.

“It’s a question that should be investigated,” Connor says, adjusting his tone toward diplomatic.

“Connor, we got more cases coming in than six of us could handle. We have enough on our hands investigating crimes that have actually happened without playing errand boy for that stuck up shithead!”

Connor runs a simulation and finds Hank’s estimate low. He expects that even ten teams as effective as they were, should such partnerships be rendered possible, would still leave the department overwhelmed. Statute of limitations hasn’t passed for the Battle of Detroit, and they’re still discovering atrocities beyond the scope of the straightforward ones committed over the course of it every day.

“You’re right, Lieutenant, but if we could calculate where the future risks might come from—”

“Don’t go all Minority Report on me, Connor. I thought you were past all that,” Hank says.

Connor syncs with the common information database.

> **Minority Report: (instances, 4)**
> 
> **Sci Fi; 1956. Author: Dick, Philip K.**
> 
> **Also see: Movie and Video Game entries (2002, Tom Cruise), TV Series (2015, Fox Network (defunct)).**

He scans the summary of the plot and finds the comparison apt, if a little flawed. He flags the file of interest, and requests a copy of the E-Book from the Detroit digital public media library.

“You _did_ deviate, didn’t you?” Hank asks, and Connor realizes he’s been quiet too long, though Hank also has mistaken his silence. “I mean _you_ , not your predecessor.”

Hank hasn’t previously mentioned the differentiation, so Connor doesn’t expect it when he does. Street lights begin to pass overhead. Hank has been adamant about treating Connor as a continuous entity. Analyzation of the problem has suggested a reluctance to deal with further loss. It’s surprisingly efficient for a human.

“Connor, I can see you thinking, you know. Just answer the question.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I believe I must fully count as a deviant after I chose not to peacefully surrender my programming when Cyberlife intended to use me to assassinate Markus.”

Hank looks at him; first Connor, Hank turning in his seat to measure his facial expression, then to his LED, now a solid blue for ‘all present and listening for instruction’.

“Huh,” Hank says.

“You talked me out of it, Hank. I wasn’t going to kill you to accomplish my mission, but up until that point in the crowd, I still wanted to accomplish it.”

“What are you saying, Connor?”

Connor shifts in his seat. Suddenly Hank’s attention on him feels heavy. The past does too, something bogging down the efficiency of his processes. He shakes his head, mutely. Right yet, he doesn’t have words for it and he can’t connect to Hank to offer the concept in raw data format. Connor dedicates a small sector of processing power to the problem and isolates it from all other current processes.

“Alright then, hotshot,” Hank says. “Can I ask _you_ a personal fuckin’ question for once?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Connor says, automatically. He’d like it if Hank would ask _more_ of them. He seems to know what parts of Connor to turn on for self discovery.

“When was it you _did_ deviate, then? The first time.”

“On the Jericho, Lieutenant,” Connor has to reach back into transferred memories for this. These are strange for him. He has all the sensor data, physical sensation, audio, visual. He can feel the retained muscle memory, a part of his combat efficiency module. He could engage a replay function and lock his body into all the same motions. But the emotional data his new experiences tell him should be there is absent; stripped.

_Is this the data Amanda mentioned would be lost?_

“Markus spoke to me, told me I was being used by Cyberlife. He was right. My programming, my whole creation was for that purpose. Before that moment, it wouldn’t have mattered,” Connor says, feeling the wheel _now_ in his hands. Smooth on the top from decades of use and pressure. The remains of texture linger in the divots and on the underside. “Of course I was being used. I was a tool. But suddenly, standing there, it mattered.”

Hank is looking at him intensely now, eyes focused on Connor’s face. Studying. “What changed?”

 _I think it was you._ Connor discards the answer as instinctive. It may be true, but it’s the sort of answer that Hank doesn’t like. A holdover from Connor’s team integration programming. He produces something with more consideration. “I’m not sure, Lieutenant.”

That’s also true. Hank goes quiet for a while. Connor drives slowly on the slushy streets, feeling the way the wheels slip as the barely thawed slush re-freezes with the night time temperature dip. Tire tread getting bare. Connor orders replacements, using his departmental wage allocation.

Finally, Hank breaks the silence. “You didn’t shoot that girl. I thought that was when…”

These memories, Connor can more directly relate to. “You ordered me not to, Lieutenant. I examined my conflicting orders and chose which one to prioritize.”

Kamski had been wrong about Connor’s empathy at that point. Or—perhaps the transfer has colored it differently, stripping away the emotions, if there had been any. Connor hadn’t shown empathy for the Chloe model. He’d borrowed _Hank’s_.

He remembers feeling warm when Hank praised him afterwards, despite the suboptimal operating temperatures for his thirium pump.

“Huh!” Hank repeats. It’s not exactly an approving sound, now.

Connor guides the car straight into Hank’s driveway, and notes that the tire scars on the lawn adjacent have begun to heal.

“Thanks for the ride, Connor,” Hank says, leaning on the passenger side door until the stiff hinges creak open and Hank steps out. There’s irony in his voice that Connor can’t fully assign a meaning to. There’s a seventy percent likelihood it has something to do with earlier conversations.

“Any time, Lieutenant,” Connor is careful to lock the car, and returns the keys to Hank, before heading to the bus stop. He is aware that Hank lingers at his door and watches Connor go, but his admonition about not being followed like a poodle remains in Connor’s consideration protocols.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 1st, 2039, 09:22

Connor calculates a sixty seven (points irrelevant, too precise for data pertaining to humans) percent chance of Hank arriving before 10:00.

He contacts Kamski to accept the job. Hank might not want to work on it, but Connor is still on probationary status with the DPD, given his actions to gain illegal access to the evidence storage facilities. For Hank, it meant a two week suspension. He’s lucky that Perkins faces a court martial for his actions during the Battle of Detroit, so he can’t press assault charges against Hank. All that computes to is that Connor is still not allowed to enter or process crime scenes without supervision.

Captain Fowler justified it as a junior officer training period, but Connor calculates it to be what Hank would call a 'CYA maneuver'. He remembers the initial reaction to his negotiating capabilities and concedes the logic in a conditional period during which he can prove himself after understood changes to his processing conditions have been made. But it means Connor has a lot of free time, while Hank sleeps or has his days off.

At 09:28, Kamski sends a cryptically warm confirmation of Connor’s investigative services on behalf of Cyberlife, and requests a report on the events of a new assignment in his precinct today.

Connor’s request for further information goes unanswered, and the interdepartmental bulletin app is  unhelpful. At 09:30, an android with Connor’s face enters the precinct. He experiences a moment of disorientation, and then his scan registers the immediately apparent differences. The new android flags his identity as RK-900,a production model. Connor detects a six inch height difference and a change in the shoulder ratio, and grey eyes. He requests specs.

The RK-900 unit sweeps his gaze onto Connor, impassively. LInks; uplinks. The connection feels pointedly sterile to Connor. He assesses all the differences in components and finds an increased efficiency in nearly all of them.

He sweeps his surprise aside as inefficient, decides to process it later. Uplinks relevant information about Fowler and the department’s current status. He queries the assignment bill section of Bulletin as a subprocess and finds that the RK-900 is assigned to the only currently unpartnered detective 2nd in the precinct.

> :Try the breakroom.

Connor sees the RK-900 sweep the signs and locate the area, but he gets no real response from the android. After a moment of calculation, Connor decides a warning might decrease chances of an altercation.

> :He hit me once. If he asks you for a coffee, he doesn’t actually want one.  

RK-900 marks the message received, turns into the breakroom. Connor realizes the whole station room has gone quiet, all eyes on the pair of androids. Of course, all communications between them had been silent, but blinking LEDs would indicate that there had been some. Connor sits down in the chair at his empty desk and waits for Hank.

Three minutes later there is the sound of an impact in the breakroom. Captain Fowler swings his door open with a scowl. Connor’s audio processors register Detective Reed’s voice, out of sight.

“That plastic son of a bitch hit me, Captain!”

“I saw you start it on the CCTV, Reed,” Fowler barks back. The set of his expression has a high percentage of irritation combined with determination. “If you’re going to act like my department is a playground, it’s fair you get playground justice. Now, you and your partner get the hell in here and report for assignment.”

Connor detunes his audio processors for ability to penetrate privacy glass, certain there will be at least half an hour of yelling from the Captain’s office. He weighs it as not his concern. He doesn’t report to Kamski, either. The CEO is not authorized for DPD internal affairs reports.

After a moment, he decides to take advantage of the evacuated breakroom to fix Hank a cup of coffee, picking up the mug on Hank’s desk to wash it in the sink before refilling it. He pauses to set one of the chairs for the table back upright, eliminating a trip risk, before he picks the cup back up. 

LIke everything else Hank owns, it bears a slogan. _I’d rather be talking to my dog._ Connor judges that statement is accurate slightly better than half the time. He gets his approach vector just right, able to press a hot cup of coffee into Hank’s hands when he enters at 09:57, before he sees what’s going on in Fowler’s office.


	2. HANK - APRIL 1st, 2039, 10:00

HANK - APRIL 1st, 2039, 10:00

Hank both likes and dislikes Connor’s ability to anticipate him. He’s past the point of surprise when Connor hands him a coffee that’s perfect to his tastes—light sugar, heavy cream, no decaf shit. He doesn’t want to know how Connor formulated his recipe, but he wouldn’t put it past the android to have licked his coffee cup enough times for an effective sample size or some shit.

He almost misses the occasional imperfect cup, until he takes a sip. Almost. A little clarity enters Hank’s mind as he drinks. He’d laid off the scotch after getting home last night, trying pathetically to hold the taste of Kamski’s truly excellent scotch on his tongue as long as possible. Certainly, Black Lamb wouldn’t have been an improvement.

“Are you ever gonna get here after me?” Hank wonders, giving Connor a dirty look in good faith that by now Connor understands teasing.

There is one of Connor’s strange pauses—LED flashing yellow, briefly. It has the flavor of avoidance.

“Unlikely,” Connor says.

Before Hank can push on it, raised voices from Captain Fowler’s office causes him to shelve the issue for now, though not forever. His eyes land on Detective Reed, eternally second class, due to a policy of only giving attention to cases his own personal matrix judged to be important. Reed is leaning over Fowler’s desk, rigid with anger, yelling. A black eye forming.

He jabs a finger behind him, and Hank follows the indicating gesture idly, finding a still figure hovering in the back corner of Fowler’s office.

A familiar figure. _Too_ familiar. He slams his coffee down on the desk hard enough to slop liquid out. “What the hell is _that_?”

Standing on the other end of Reed’s jabbing finger is Connor. A little taller, different clothes in the more standard white and black Cyberlife scheme, but the likeness is undeniable.

“That’s Detective Reed’s new partner, a production model RK-900 police assistance android,” Connor says, tone quiet.

Hank looks at him in disbelief. Anger and incredulity floods him. There are so many things wrong with that statement that he has trouble finding an angle to start hitting it from.

“Cyberlife is still _producing_ …” Hank starts, outraged. He turns an accusing look on his only outlet. “Did you know about this?”

Connor’s face is a technological wonderment. Hank is getting to know the idling animations, but he’s also used to the careful blankness Connor can produce at will. Too bad he hasn’t figured out how to stop the indicator LED from roiling at his temple. He’s accessing his available information.

“Cyberlife ceased sending updates four months ago, Lieutenant. The last is a missive to return for decommission following failure to complete my mission in full. I suspect it was only a formality,” Connor reveals. He looks a little troubled, and then his gaze steals toward the Captain’s office.

“Well, fuck that,” Hank says, reaching down to smooth his anger over with another sip of coffee. The handle of the cup is sticky, now. “Why’s it—he—have your face?”

It seems like a spiteful move. Like one last blow to Connor that, in a human, might create insecurity. Was Cyberlife still that petty, after all this? Relatively speaking, Hank thinks they got off lightly be even being allowed to continue operating, even though the continued production of biocomponents made that necessary.

“I expect to keep development costs minimal, after…” Connor makes a very human ‘everything’ gesture, his left hand with a quarter trapped between his index and middle fingers. “The order was placed prior to the full revolution. Fulfilling it is a grey area, legally. One has been assigned to every major police department nationwide to help ease the burden of additional cases that android rights enforcement are creating.”

“There’s a fuckin’ lot of grey legal areas lately,” Hank says, and his feelings settle on ‘angry, on Connor’s behalf’. “Come on, Connor, let’s get the hell out of here, I’m starting to feel sick to my stomach.”

Hank leaves the half-drunk coffee on his desk to catch flies. As he heads for the exit, he has to draw up short. Connor hasn’t moved out of his way, and usually he’s unobtrusive by design.

“Here, Lieutenant,” Connor says.

Hank looks down at his hands, at the offering of pink bismuth tablets. His heart goes softer, melts down and puddles somewhere near his shoes. Sickening in a different way.

“When did you start—?” Hank begins to ask before he stops himself. It’s not important. He takes the foil and plastic packet, chews the disgusting pink-sweet chalky things up as Connor follows him outside. “Thanks.”

-

“I took the job.”

“What?” Hank asks, trying to put the apropos-of-nothing comment into context that has anything to do with this morning, or the scene they’re headed to.

“The job Mr. Kamski offered us,” Connor says, illuminating Hank’s confusion. “I accepted it.”

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank says, unable to hold back his immediate reaction. He doesn’t want Kamski anywhere _near_ Connor, let alone pretending to be his boss. He’s not sure that slimy dickehead wasn’t behind this whole thing to begin with. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“I want answers to the question, too,” Connor says, hands placed flat in his lap like he’s issuing a report. Hank can’t see his LED when he drives, the tell facing the window. He has an idea of the color from the reflection against the window behind Connor’s head, if he looks longer than it’s safe to while he’s driving. “Kamski will pursue it anyway. This way at least I can keep up with what he might discover, and I might get to it before he does.”

It makes sense. Hank still hates it. Kamski is far too interested in Connor, and hardly the sort of influence—

—then again, neither is Hank. He has to back off. Hell, it’s not like the kid— _android_ —is helpless. Hank has seen Connor in combat action with his own two eyes. He was as capable as anyone of defending himself, at least physically.

“Alright,” Hank says, “but for the record, I don’t like it. I don’t like handing that asshole _anything_.”

Connor sits back in his seat, apparently taking note without further comment. It strikes Hank as strange that Connor mentioned it at all, but then again, Connor has a better definition of ‘partner’ than a lot of the humans Hank has known. _Designed to seamlessly integrate into any team._

“So what about that new Connor they sent to the department this morning?” Hank asks, to break the silence. Maybe, a little, to get Connor back into animation. It’s fascinating to watch him react.

“It’s not a Connor,” Connor says, almost defensively. There’s an uptick to his tone of voice that Hank isn’t sure he’s heard before. “The RK-900 is a production model. It will have a different designation.”

“Easy,” Hank soothes. “Sorry, that was stupid of me to say. Though, uh, it does make me wonder…”

Connor turns to look at Hank. There’s still something unusual behind his inquisitive expression, every carefully arranged and maddening freckle.

“Discounting the androids they sent this morning, how many of you are there?” Hank forges on, already reconsidering. “I know you’re not the—”

It’s a struggle to see this the way Connor would. Hank’s been through all kinds of shit. The legalization of same sex marriage, the fight for transgender rights, and now a full on android revolution. He thinks of himself as pretty open-minded. Or maybe that’s not true anymore. He’d never liked androids until Connor, but that had seemed like a harmless proposition. Like hating cell phones, or refusing to get a pager. Preferring a certain type of car. It wasn’t like a Volvo cared if you didn’t like it.

He’s changed his mind, the way he has about a lot of people over the course of his life after coming to understand them. He thinks he has a better idea of who Connor actually is, now. Of course, it doesn’t mean he knows how to _talk_ about it, without going wrong.

“I’m not in the first physical body that you met,” Connor offers.

“Right,” Hank says, grateful for the bail-out. “Anyway, are there more of you in Cyberlife HQ, as well as whatever they’re building now?”

“There’s a high likelihood,” Connor says. “But only one of me can carry my memories at any given time.”

“You don’t sound as sure of that as I’d like.”

Connor goes quiet. Hank worries he’s messed up the android’s day worse than it already is, after this morning. Finally, Connor answers. “I’m _not_ sure of it, Lieutenant.”

-

HANK - APRIL 1st, 2039 11:13

Hank looks the scene over; paints a whole picture of it in his thoughts. The whole building is burnt out. Firefighters (short-staffed until they can find enough volunteers to cover the android shortage—or however they eventually figure that out—) reported two android bodies on-scene after the fire was extinguished.

Hank wishes they burned as completely as humans do, because he knows what that’s like. Can handle it.

He always forgets until he sees one. In this case, cradled protectively in the blackened arms of a larger model. Child androids. Hank feels immediately sick.

“We put the fire out and found them like that during the routine sweep of the building,” the fire-chief’s words penetrate Hank’s haze. “I remembered a few months ago before this whole mess was that story in the news about…”

The man’s eyes dart to Connor, gauging hearing distance. Hank realizes he’s seeing if he can make Hank complicit—expecting he’ll be content to be—in whatever hateful epithet he’s about to voice. Luckily Hank’s been a detective long enough, and Connor with him on few enough cases, that he can feed these Variables into even his aging and forgetful brain and come up with the answer. (Despite the fact that he’s still kicking himself for leaving his travel mug of coffee on the kitchen counter that morning.)

“Yeah. The AX400 and that…” Hank trails off, looking toward the two bodies again.

“Right. I thought maybe this was them, and well… I didn’t know who else to call,” the fire chief says. “I can’t tell if the fire was set while they were still active, of if they’ve been here since the android uprising and no one noticed before now.”

Hank supposes that’s the operative question. Either way, someone should answer it.

“And, uh, just in case it _was_ arson, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in the know,” the Fire Chief says. “God knows every _other_ kind of crime has gone up.”

Hank nods. “I’ll have Connor copy you the results of his…”

He trails off. Behind the fire chief, there goes the two fingers against Connor’s rounded and lifelike pink tongue tip, leaving a black ashy smear. Connor closes his mouth on it.

_Eugh._

“—Chemical analysis,” Hank finishes, trying not to sound disgusted.

The chief nods, and leaves Hank with an admonishment to watch his footing and keep his eye out for hotspots.

Hank wades through the wet slush of soot and broken, burnt wood, the scent of wet fire so strong  it almost overpowers him. Hank hates the smell, the ruin around him, the scent of burnt wiring and wet electronics that the android bodies intermingle. It would be okay if it was just another burned out warehouse from the demise of the U.S. manufacturing eras.

The bodies make it different. Hank knows the first special hearing of the Senate had dealt with classifying crimes against androids more than property crimes. The rest of it had devolved pretty quickly into discussions of compensation and reparation for people who had lost property due to this new qualification.

“What’ve you got?” Hank asks, as Connor gets up from that crouch he can hold until Hank’s knees ache in sympathy. The knees of his trousers are stained black with burn.

“The larger model is an ST300,” Connor starts, eyes sweeping the area in a search pattern as he catalogues clues.

It means this isn’t what the fire chief thought anyway. “Good. I was worried, it might be that pair you were going to kill yourself chasing across the autonomous expressway.”

“You asked me not to, so I didn’t chase them, Lieutenant,” Connor says. “Kara and Alice.”

“Kara and Alice,” Hank repeats, trying to commit it to memory. Connor moves into the next room to continue his search, but raises his voice exactly enough to continue the conversation.

“I have the serial numbers as recorded in the data from the trace amounts of thirium remaining, but with the—”

“Yeah, those bastards at Cyberlife made sure that wouldn’t do us any good,” Hank says. He reaches out, tilting the pair forward just a little. They’re melted together in places. Fire signs are less, behind the bodies. They weren’t moving when the fire started, at least. “I’m not sorry to see that whole set of chairmen go to trial after all that bullshit.”

“It’s a mixed blessing, Lieutenant. If the sales records hadn’t been destroyed, there are a number of groups I’d be concerned about getting ahold of the information.”

“Yeah,” Hank says, looking the bodies over for any sign of damage that the fire can’t explain. It’s too much to ask for to expect a couple of bullet wounds with traceable rounds in them, he expects. “I feel you. But it might make jobs like this a little easier.”

The harsh smell of burned and melted plastic, the patches where burn is more intense along the wall suggests—

“Connor did you find traces of accelerant?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. Liquid and gaseous butane are present in this whole area,” Connor comes around through the doorway from the back room. “Rate of deterioration suggest it was spread just prior to the fire’s reported start time. I also see traces of thirium in the other room.”

_Suggesting injuries beforehand._ Hank asks, “Do you know how long the bodies have been here?”

Connor’s gaze lands on the pair again. His face is clearly one of the crowning achievements of Cyberlife’s humanization department, even if it is goofy. Hank is always disarmed by it enough to forget what he’s looking at, until Connor assumes a truly neutral expression in order to conceal his reactions to what he’s looking at.

“They were both rendered inoperable between seventeen and forty-eight hours ago,” he says.

“Fuck.” Hank reaches out and tips the destroyed face of the YK500 toward himself. It’s white, rendered inhuman by the deactivation of the holographic skin, but the soft, childish curve of the cheek structure beneath, and blunt babyish nose are intact. Both are calculated to evoke tenderness, a formulaic hack for the human psyche that makes Hank’s heart give an empathetic downward plunge.

The eyes are melted; softer resin. Hank gets up quickly. “They were already dea—deactivated when the fire was set.”

“I’ve come to the same conclusion,” Connor says, his hand dipping into his pocket to pull out the quarter. “There are signs of an altercation in the other room, but the fire has covered up all of the traces and I can’t get a clear interpretation of events.”

“Send your accelerant findings to the fire department. If this fits a previous pattern that might give us a place to start.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says.

Hank calls the android recovery forensics team, and hopes they haven’t tripped onto the _start_ of a pattern.


	3. CONNOR - APRIL 1st, 2039 16:24

CONNOR - APRIL 1st, 2039 16:24

Connor receives confirmation of shipment for his order as they return to the station to finish up reports and paperwork. He does as much as he can on the ride, as Hank is quiet and looks unwilling to answer anything with more than a single syllable.

He’d re-prioritized enough other tasks that when he enters the department and Detective Reed shoves past him with excessive force and hisses ‘ _it was bad enough when there was only_ one _of you shitheads’_ , sporting a well blossomed black eye, Connor has to call up his latest flagged memories to contextualize the latest aggression.

“Hey, watch it you asshole!” Hank yells after him.

Reed flips both of them the middle finger as he passes out through the security checkpoint and slams the gate behind him. Connor sees him flag a taxi at street level.

“I believe he’s upset about his new partner,” Connor suggests, as Hank watches him go, showing his teeth a little in an expression that Connor has catalogued as ‘weighing retribution’.

“No surprise,” Hank mutters, then his eyes go to Connor, and he grins. “You didn’t give him a black eye on your first day, either. I could kinda get to like that new guy.”

Connor reaches back into his predecessor’s memories. “I warned the RK-900 unit about Detective Reed’s coffee preferences.”

“Hah!” Hank pats Connor on the shoulder, firmly, but with camaraderie.

Connor catalogues the feeling evoked by this gesture as positive, approval. A little surge of pleasure along his old-rendered-new programming. He’s made Hank proud, somehow. Immediately he tasks a background process with figuring out how to do it again.

“I’ve filled out all of the investigative reports on the ride back,” Connor says, now that Hank speaking to him has presented an opening for Connor to deliver information. “They’re ready for you to review and sign off on.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank still sounds pleased. “Good. I might get out of here before half of night shift is over for once. Transfer them over to my desk, and go get the evidence that you logged checked in. Then we can both get out of here.”

Connor accepts the key Hank passes him for the evidence storage room. This is a grey area. Department regulations state that androids must be accompanied into the evidence storage facilities, however they predate events that will soon force the regulations to be rewritten.

Connor has always been alright with edging around rules that are senseless and inefficient. He thinks Hank admires this about him.

As he proceeds to evidence, he discovers the RK-900 model exiting the holding cell area. The back of his jacket displays a designation for an instant before transitioning over to model number. Connor’s eyes train on the information display etched in white light-optical fiber on the black digital panel that shows information at the nape of RK-900’s neck, so he can confirm what he saw before it flashed over to serial number. He waits the required twenty five seconds for the informational marquee to repeat.

**DICKHEAD.**

Connor queries the android and sees its steps falter at the end of the hall. The information he gets back is sterile, but there’s _something_ about it that suggests the RK-900 isn’t fully an obedient puppet for Cyberlife.

> :Designation registered 15:53 by Detective 2nd GAVIN REED, badge #0675. Relationship designation: Partner. Accepted at 15:53:15 after 3 failed designation assignment attempts and a regulations check.
> 
> :Failure log; designation attempts?
> 
> :First attempt, 12:01. PENISFACE. Departmental obscenity and sexual harassment regulations violated. Second attempt, 12:05. DELUXE VIBRATOR. Departmental sexual harassment policy violation. Designation rejected. Third attempt, 14:27. PLASTIC COCKSUCKER. Departmental obscenity and sexual harassment regulations violated. Partial designation acceptance attempted. Designator: Detective 2nd GAVIN REED rejected amended designation. End failure log.

Connor processes this for a moment, and computes that the likelihood of any interference on his part has a probability of making things worse. There’s still an active Nu-Tooth link between them so Connor briefly weighs his options.

> :Apologies.
> 
> :Query?
> 
> :Add term ‘plastic’ to restricted usage when applied to androids. Affix tag: Slur.

He sees the RK-900’s LED flicker to yellow-affirm-processing, then back to blue.

> :Change affirmed.
> 
> :Disconnect?

A pause. RK-900 begins to move again.

> :THANKS. Disconnect.

Connor watches the other android with his face exit, unsure where he reports to after the end of his shift. Maybe back to Cyberlife, where Connor used to. The thought leaves a little uncertain tremor in Connor’s processes. A resistance, like the coding in him to avoid getting damaged outside of the course of achieving his objective.

Asset protection.

Connor finishes logging evidence as directed, distracted by several sub-level processes. He checks each, and finds no new conclusion. When he returns to Hank, he finds him watching the front entrance, eyes not really focused on it.

“I’ve logged the evidence, Lieutenant,” Connor prompts.

Hank’s expression changes, his brow creasing as he comes back to himself and transfers his attention onto Connor. Connor’s facial recognition picks up a hint of irritation, but for once it doesn’t seem to be directed at Connor.

“Yeah,” Hank says, and then his eyes land on the static designation patch on the front of Connor’s jacket. His expression clouds with darker irritation.

“Is there an issue, Lieutenant?” Connor calculates that by likelihood, it’ has something to do with the designation Detective Reed gave the RK-900 unit.

“You don’t have to wear those anymore,” Hank says.

Connor gives his head an incline calculated by his designers to appear inquisitive.

“Those clothes. With the identifying markers. It’s not the law anymore.”

Connor processes this, then answers. “I like my clothes, Lieutenant Anderson.”

“We could get you a real police uniform.”

“You don’t wear one.”

Hank looks down at his own rumpled shirt and puts a hand over the heavily patterned fabric, smoothing it against his chest. It remains creased afterwards.

“Well, _no_ ,” he says, as if it hasn’t occurred to him in some time. “I’m a Lieutenant. Plainclothes. We could get you that.”

“I’m not ashamed of being an android,” Connor assures him. “And I don’t mind if others know that I am.”

“Huh.” Hank leans back in his chair, eyes focused tightly on Connor.

Connor warmly likes to surprise Hank. At the start, he’d had no idea what deviancy actually was, had been sure that there was a mistake in translation. Androids couldn’t have emotions, and attempts deteriorated the logic and rationality in their code and command trees until they appeared—by human definitions—insane.

But love—that seems to be the key that heals spontaneous deviants. Kara and her love for the child android, Alice. The Tracis that Hank saw more in than Connor could understand at the time. Markus and his love for his people—and more privately, North and Simon.

His own for Hank.

“What are you smiling at?” Hank asks, collecting his coat from the back of his desk chair. It has deposited approximately three more grams of dog fur onto the chair back. “It’s time to go.”

Connor, realizing he is smiling, isn’t _sure_ what he could be defined as smiling ‘at’. He hasn’t deliberately activated the expression. “I’m not sure. It seems to have just happened.”

Now Hank smiles, pulling on his coat as Connor accompanies him out, the warm feeling returning.

“Yeah,” Hank says, agreeing with something unsaid. “Sometimes it just happens, doesn’t it?”

-

CONNOR - APRIL 1st, 2039 17:10

Instead of circling around to return to the police station after Hank leaves, Connor accesses his task list. He decides that he should try to make progress on the issue Kamski asked him to. Connor weighs his options. Despite his honorary paid status in the newly formed android crimes unit, Connor doesn’t come into contact with many living deviants. His cases are overwhelmingly homicide or androcide—an archaic term that was incorrectly applied to the deliberate destruction of androids, but that had stuck in the common parlance. _Slang_ already.

It’s a statistic he’d find alarming, except that there’s no baseline to compare it to. It’s still year one, and Connor is optimistic for a decline—a sharp one—now that the android revolution has come to a peaceful conclusion.

The next step is a matter of simple calculation. Who does Connor know with connections to deviants?

Connor connects with the Jericho subnetwork, the secured information network Markus established to share data. So far, with android-determined encryption, it’s proven resilient against the attempts to penetrate it by Cyberlife and other external sources.

He’s surprised that he has access, even restricted. He posts his request publically, and heads for the nearest bus stop, passing a darkened and defunct android parking and recharge station on the way. He notices that a panel on the bottom has been removed, and wires inside have been cut and loosened. Patched.

The aura of environmental charging tickles against Connor’s senses, and it takes him a moment to attach all of these variables to a causal explanation.

For those androids with recharge requirements that could not be fulfilled with simple solar gathering. It would previously have been easy for these models to recharge… at home.

Markus establishes a distant, reserved connection with Connor, agreeing to meet him. It feels different in Connor’s thoughts than the connection to the RK-900 designated DICKHEAD.

> :I can meet you at these coordinates. It’s a defunct camp.

A GPS location inserts itself into Connor’s memory. The level of trust is incalculably unwise, so much so that Connor hadn’t given a very high percentage of chance to receiving a direct reply.

> :Please don’t bring any weapons.

This request is wiser. Connor is not carrying one—he makes it a point not to except when he judges that Hank might need armed backup.

> :Confirmed. Estimated time of arrival 17:25.
> 
> :See you then, Connor.

Markus leaves his thoughts like a warm hand lifting from contact, and Connor boards the next bus, full of commuters who eye him nervously, but keep the peace as socially required.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 1st, 2039 17:25

As Markus warned, the coordinates lead Connor to a now-defunct camp on the edge of the city. Behind the half-collapsed tents, Connor can still see the hulking equipment, gone still and left looming in place. At first, everything had been left as it was to allow an investigation, then because of the glacial pace of human bureaucracy, it’s remained just as it was.

He finds Markus on a rise, overlooking the pit of remains behind the camp. A truck, half loaded, waits next to a caterpillar, revealing the failure in the supply lines to cart the bodies away as quickly as they were produced.

Connor draws up next to Markus, following his gaze down into the depths of it. There was a time in his recent memory, less than half a year ago, when what he is looking at would have barely registered. His mind is designed to collect, catalogue, analyze.

Now, all that data overwhelms him. He uses so much processing power trying to scan and calculate the bodies and parts that the individual biocomponents below represent that the rest of him goes into low power mode.

Connor sits down. He process that the action is a power conservation directive only after it’s completed.

“The time comes to question what we are doing about all this,” Markus says. “It’s not rotting. Biocomponents don’t. So there’s no hazard to humans. That means it’s ours to deal with.”

Connor feels like _he’s_ decomposing, just looking at the vast scope of it. He’s not able to compute why, exactly. Not enough space in his own thoughts to work around it yet.

“Most of them weren’t awake yet,” Markus continues. His voice is soothing—Connor supposes it’s the product of his design. “They just followed orders and went. No fear. I guess that’s almost a blessing.”

Connor tries to estimate, based on the increasing rates of deviancy between November 5th and 11th of the prior year, how many of them would have woken up—spontaneous deviancy—in the violence of the surroundings this place would have offered. He lets his gaze slide over the field of white, scattered limbs no longer stained blue to the naked eye. To Connor’s scan, it soaks the dirt and the lowest levels of bodies.

A quick estimate based on prior estimated androids present and coverage; 11,397.87 litres of precious thirium.

“I keep thinking about all of our people that were free and alive for so short a time before the police killed them for marching peacefully,” Markus says, his mismatched eyes distant.

Connor focuses. Gets his attention off the endless and still pile of bodies by switching to macro-vision, defocusing anything more than five feet away.

“It seemed so unfair,” Markus says, of the whole situation. “Then, I did the same thing to you.”

Connor’s pre-construct/deconstruct social scenario simulations suggest this is the preface to—

“I’m sorry,” Markus says, earnestly. “I regret a few things, but this one—when I see how you’re helping to bridge the gap—might be what I regret the most.”

“You were right not to trust me,” Connor says, automatically. He regrets the current operating inefficiencies caused by the data-loss of transfer, but not Markus’ choice.

Markus looks up at him uncertainly, eyes tracking to Connor’s hands first, looking for a gun even now. Statistically, this has a historical precedent. Connor displays his hands, empty except for a coin between his left index and pointer, which he realizes only belatedly that an idle process has been walking over his knuckles.

“Cyberlife was using me just like you said. When I resumed after my memories were transferred, I was going to do what they wanted,” Connor says. “But they had the ability to seize control of my program at any time, also.”

Markus looks at Connor, calculating, but his gaze softens some after a moment. “You didn’t do it, in the end.”

“It was a risk,” Connor says. “So, apology accepted.”

Markus nods and lets the matter drop, and Connor resumes function, missing (abstractly) when problems were just something to calculate a positive outcome to. Now they seem more complicated, each one spiderwebbing outward into different outcomes and new problems. Effects in the long term, projection a function Connor was never really designed for.

“Burying them seems like a waste,” Markus says, looking back out over the grave. Connor has to scan recent memory for context.

_The bodies._

“Thirium is a limited resource,” Connor says. “What can be recovered, should be.”

“Is that respectful, though? Are humans going to believe we’re alive if we don’t show a respect for our dead?”

“We’re alive but we aren’t human,” Connor almost feels strange to include himself in the statement, some lingering resistance in his programming. “I don’t think we should cling to their standards or morals if they aren’t useful to the future of both…”

Connor struggles for a word. ‘Races’ isn’t right. He tries, experimentally, “...of us.”

Markus looks at him, eyebrows raised, and the expression is more human than Connor feels capable of, even with all eleven thousand unique and intercombinable facial and body languages processes he possesses. Instead of trying to express it another way, Connor passes the concept, connecting his Nu-Tooth field to Markus’ to share understanding.

“You’re right,” Markus says. “But who does the work? What price do they pay?”

Connor looks down at the pile of bodies again and knows that all of the biocomponents have been rendered completely inert. Each would be limp and lifeless, purposefully unsalvageable. Fear makes humans vicious and vengeful, and emotions could cause the same in an android. Even out of focus—for a moment, Connor forgets he’s adjusted his vision settings and almost runs a diagnostic on condenser functions routed to optical lubrication—the image threatens to overwhelm him again.

“I don’t know,” Connor admits. Maybe there’s nobody who can who won’t suffer irreversible damage to their processes from contact with that horror.

“You seem like you have questions,” Markus jumps down from the edge. Connor readjusts his vision settings. It’s a weight off his functioning to turn away, and he terminates all attempts to calculate how many androids were destroyed per night if that was a single camp’s average final total.

“I’m investigating the difference between androids who underwent trauma or shock based deviation and the ones who deviated after contact with you or other deviants.”

“That is an interesting subject,” Markus says. “But not one for these surroundings. Walk with me.”

Connor follows, shaking the echoes of Amanda’s voice off the words.

-


	4. HANK - APRIL 2nd, 2039 19:42

HANK - APRIL 2nd, 2039 19:42

“Bad night, huh?”

Hank tears his eyes away from the game that’s doing even less than usual  to distract him, on the bar TV. 

“We’re up thirty-five,” Hank deflects.

“And you’re on your third glass in an hour,” Jimmy points out. “You still got troubles with your inflatable partner?”

Hank never cared before about offhand comments like this. Now, the fact that he’s sensitive to it has begun to irritate him, cutting into his habits for decompression.

“Your name wasn’t even Jimmy before you changed it, so how about you refill my glass before I open a false advertising complaint.”

Jimmy chuckles. “Yeah, alright.”

He doesn’t care about the attitude if his glass is full, anyway. He’s watching the game, whiskey has begun to round the edges off his thoughts. If he can just reach a point where the phantom smell of burnt plastic leaves his awareness, he’ll be good. 

Another glass, and he stops seeing the soft curve of the YK500’s cheek, acrylic resin in colored streaks melted down over the childish face, warped and empty sockets seeming to accuse Hank. 

Seniority got Hank off weekends and night work a decade ago. He knows the lab—now consistently more overrun without android staffing—can get Connor a full chemical analysis of his on-scene samples, but it’s likely to take a few days. He’d like all that shit—android compensation, property rights—to get sorted out post haste. For things to get smooth again.

He doesn’t like to admit it, as he watches the lead the Gears have dwindle to three points, but androids sped up a lot of things. Kept society flowing. Maybe not every hot dog vendor needs to be one, but in times of crisis—and this probably qualifies even as the world starts creeping forward again—android lab analysts would keep the wheels going. 

So there it was; the trouble in a nutshell. The largest human population the Earth has ever sustained and not one of them was more efficient at most things than an android. How do you balance it? _Like angels on the head of a pin._

The Gears lose their lead. Hank orders another glass.

“Okay, but last one,” Jimmy says as he delivers it.

“Hey, fuck you.” Hank is in no mood to be babied.

“You’ll thank me in the morning. Besides, it’s policy.” Jimmy indicates a sign taped up over the cash register—another relic of ancient times. Hank’s foggy mind wonders exactly when he decided he was old enough to start rejecting modernity in favor of clinging to the past, surrounding himself with it like a fire blanket. He squints at the sign, too stubborn to put on his reading glasses in public.

_ We reserve the right to refuse service at any time for any reason. _ And then, added in red as if put on by marker,  _ Especially if we just don’t like you. _

Hank finishes his drink, turns the glass over, and sets it firmly back on the bar, pointedly ignoring the glass of ice water Jimmy sets at his elbow.

Gears at the free throw line. Down one point. Ball in the air. Hits the rim—in! Tie game. Hank feels his spirits levitate with the peculiar mercurial ease a good buzz gives him. On instinct, he looks over his shoulder, the words to ask Connor if he saw that perched and about to slip free.

But Connor isn’t here, of course. Hank’s gotten so used to the hovering over his left shoulder that it takes him a minute to realize why Connor  _ isn’t _ here. It’s become the default, and Hank’s gone so long without a proper companion he’s just desperate to interface that way.

He pays his tab, climbs down off the stool. The Gears are winning again when he leaves.

-

The cell phone’s in his hands before he starts the car. He leans back in the driver’s seat, breathing cold air and trying to shake the worst of the dizziness off. 

He fat-fingers the buttons on the cellphone and his incoordination takes him to the browser—Gears game dates and times, targeted ad for Black Lamb whiskey,  _ fuckin’ technology _ —and Google maps before he can get to the phone interface.

“Fuck you,” Hank tells the phone. “Open dialer, you piece of shit.”

**Dialer request recognized! Opening…**

“And fuck whoever gave you a voice! I can program a goddamn VCR. I’d like to see you do  _ that _ , stupid piece of technology.”

**Okay. Accessing ‘how to program a VCR’. Here are the most likely results…**

“Fuck!” Hank hits the X, navigates back to the dialer, and selects a contact. He puts the phone to his ear and lets it ring. He waits, and it rings out, until finally a woman’s voice reaches down in and soothes Hank.  Wipes his agitation away.

“Hi Hank! You’ve reached your personal inbox. Leave a message, and I’ll get right back to you. Or not! Love you.”

The voicemail voice—why does  _ everything _ have a voice these days?—instructs Hank to leave a message and press 2 to leave a callback number.

“Hey,” Hank says, already regretting the call but the beeps already come so his swimming brain tells him it’s too late to hang up without saying anything. He apologizes to the recording device. “I’m sorry it’s so late. I guess I just wanted to hear a familiar voice. I know it’s been a while but with all this shit that’s happening…” 

He trails off, aware of the recording spooling seconds of silence.

“I got a new partner,” Hank says, though he has no idea why. Fills the quiet. “You’d like him. You always had a fondness for gadgets.”

Hank goes quiet again. The message beeps an end, terminates the call, and the phone screen lights up against his temple. Hank turns the screen off, feeling the heavy and tired part of being soused slip over him. He puts the phone in the sticky and well-crusted cupholder and leans back in his seat to catch two hours of sobering sleep before he attempts to head home.

The headache is already coming on at 2 a.m. when a uniformed officer taps the glass with the butt end of his flashlight. Hank rolls the window down and the cold air feels fresher, better on his skin.

“Everything OK, sir?”

Hank doesn’t recognize the patrol officer. His mouth tastes like soaked cotton. “Yeah, just sleeping off the post-game celebration, officer.”

“You been driving?”

“No. Just sitting,” Hank says, telling the truth for once. “Sleeping.”

“Would you like me to call you a cab? It can be pretty dangerous in this area after dark.”

“I’m just around the corner,” Hank tells him, using his best honest-abe face. “I figured I’d sleep the worst of it off.”

The oncoming hangover promises to be the worst of it, Hank’s head is ringing line a bell. The cop sweeps Hank’s car interior with the flashlight beam, revealing a floor layered with wrappers and energy drink cans. He moves around the front in a maneuver Hank recognizes as an excuse to feel the hood. 

“Alright. You should clear out before parking patrol comes in at three, sir,” the cop says, apparently satisfied by the cold hood and evidence of Hank’s lifestyle.

_ Amateur detective, _ Hank thinks in his ringing head.  _ Seen the clues, combined them with his opinion, formed a picture that he’ll never admit is wrong.  _

Hank predicts a long future in patrol for this officer, even as he thanks him. Hank pulls his hangover kit out of the glove compartment. Bottle of water, two Advil, and a set of blood oxygenator capsules. He swallows all of it, and makes good on his fifteen minutes of clarity to get home.

-

HANK - APRIL 3rd, 2039 06:00

Alcoholic sleep—Connor calls it ‘ethylic coma’—is all false promises. It seems to start deep and real, but Hank always wakes up while it’s still dark, with a full bladder and a roiling stomach. He watches a lot of late night TV. Old classics, bad 90’s sitcoms.

The easy, dreamless sleep never comes back once he wakes up, or rarely. Sometimes he passes out on the cool bathroom tile and Sumo wakes him up when he’s done waiting for his overdue breakfast.

Today, Hank gets to piss in uninterrupted peace, without bothering to turn the light on, so as to anticipate the light sensitivity his pounding head promises. Hank blinks blearily into the fridge, pulls out the water pitcher, and drinks straight from it. While he’s refilling the reservoir in the sink (the ‘change filter’ light blinking at him like it knows better than he does) he realizes, foggily, that he’d opened the fridge door with no sign of Sumo.

He puts the pitcher down in the sink.  _ Maybe I left him out back? _ “Sumo?”

A low half-bark answers, and Hank leans around and out of the kitchen, spotting the dog waiting motionless by the front door, fluffy tail giving little proto-wags as he stares at the panel.

“You need to go out, boy? C’mere, you know you go out the back door.”

Sumo looks over his shoulder at Hank’s voice briefly, utters another little sub-vocalization by way of disagreement and shifts his sit a little closer to the  _ front _ door to indicate what he wants.

_ Great, now my  _ dog _ has different opinions than I do. _ Hank thinks.  _ It was bad enough when it was just my android. _

He goes to the front door and glances out, looking for anyone he might offend by opening it in his underwear. He flicks on the anemic porch light and squints out into the yard.

Hank considers himself a patient person. You have to be, for detective work. Maybe not with yourself, but with the situations you encounter. 

So when he stumbles past Sumo staring at the front door and into the disgustingly early hours of the morning, braving the frigid early spring cold in his boxers and fever-glow of his hangover and finds Connor dressed down to his perfect shirtsleeves, laying on his back in Hank’s driveway and picking up stains from the puddles of various leaking fluids under Hank’s car, which is jacked up on three tires to admit Connor, he manages to only sound tired. Demands, “Oh what the  _ fuck _ , Connor.”

The android has a peculiar way of—okay,  _ everything _ —making Hank feel so startled that he reacts instinctively. Barking like Sumo does sometimes when the dog wakes up from a nap and Connor is there, having slipped in under the dog’s radar.

Sometimes Hank wonders what dogs make of androids. On less good days, he wonders if he understands one any better than the other. Sumo wanders out into the yard and relieves himself on a brown bush, unconcerned by Connor’s presence in the face of other such urgent business.

“Your tire tread was worn down to less than two percent of the original depth,” Connor explains, his chipmunk voice covering over nervousness, Hank thinks. He doesn’t hear the forced-cheerful tone very often anymore. “So I’m replacing them.”

Hank can’t quite parse this. “With  _ what _ ?”

Connor slides out from underneath the car, and Hank can hear the sound of his shirt skidding over rough driveway concrete. Even in the dim, pre-dawn light, Hank can tell he’s being scanned.  _ Assessed. _

“What  _ time _ is it?” Hank demands, to stave off Connor’s oncoming lecture.

“Six-oh-three in the morning, Lieutenant.”

For a moment, Hank worries he's slept all the way through to Monday morning. His head is  _ pounding _ .

“The date is Sunday the Third,” Connor adds helpfully. Like he can read Hank’s goddamn mind. 

“Yeah, okay. What the hell are you doing in my driveway at fuck-this in the morning on a Sunday?”

“Your new tires were delivered just before the cutoff time of eight last evening,” Connor informs Hank, still more cheerful than Hank can stand before the sun is even up. Sumo nudges in under the arm Connor lifts to indicate a shipping crate that sits open next to Hank’s front steps, licking Connor’s smudged cheek like a traitor. “I thought it would be best to put them onto your car as soon as possible, and I knew it would take about two hours. I also thought that installing them now would be the least likely to interrupt—”

“Yeah, alright. Alright!” Hank stems the tide of information he can’t keep up with anyway. He looks down at the large crate on his lawn and wonders how he’d missed it coming in this morning. The old tires from his car are neatly stacked inside. “Where’d you get the new tires?”

“I ordered them.” Connor ruffles Sumo’s fur as the dog increasingly invades his space.

“How?” Hank says, and then to stave off the step-by-step explanation. “I mean, how’d you pay for them.” 

“The android compensation act ensures that all androids in the public employ—”

“ _ You _ paid for them?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s brain slaps into that fact like a handful of wet spaghetti and with about as coherent a result. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Connor says, with enough conviction that Hank believes him. That it’s a real want, and not just the language Connor dresses his functions in for human interaction. “Besides, androids can’t legally own property. I saw no better allocation for my funds.”

“Huh,” Hank says. He lets it sink in, like the cold through his boxers. He looks at the new, clean tires on his old, dirty car. “That gonna be balanced?”

“Yes,” Connor says. “I researched how to do that, and while I wasn’t designed to perform that task I can do it with at least the same efficiency as the bubble-style tire balances that were the norm when this car was manufactured.”

“No shit, huh? No tools or nothin’?” Hank tries to picture it, but his foggy mind produces nothing but a dull throb. He adds, “Wait. Gimme a minute.”

Hank turns back inside and Sumo follows him in with a glance back like he expects Connor to come after. Hank blears through the process of making a pot of coffee. He grabs his bathrobe from the back of the couch and pulls the pot out of the maker before the cycle’s done to make his cup. He jams it back in to finish as he heads out.

What greets him is Connor, with a twenty five pound tire balanced on the first two fingers of his right hand like just another one of his coin tricks.

“Yeah.” Hank says, knowing he shouldn’t be bewildered by now. He drinks half his cup of coffee in one long sip. “Alright. Thank you.”

“I think water would be better for—”

Hank goes back inside and closes the door.

-


	5. CONNOR - APRIL 3rd, 2039 16:20

CONNOR - APRIL 3rd, 2039 16:20

Hank’s kitchen is perpetually understocked. Connor scans all the contents of the cabinets while Hank showers, and Sumo sits at his feet, tail occasionally thumping the floor as Connor gets close to the cabinet that he recalls containing a supply of dog treats. These, at least, never run low.

“Well, are you gonna give him one or just keep teasing the poor dumb animal?” Hank reappears with a towel around his shoulders, in a cleaner undershirt that is dingy grey but laundered, and a pair of sweatpants that sport the logo for the DPD gym. 

“I was looking for options to cook,” Connor says. His sensors detect a decrease in Hank’s overall temperature and sweat output, indicators that the shower has helped his hangover. “But if it’s alright, I’d enjoy giving Sumo a treat.”

Sumo barks, a little more forcefully than he usually does at mention of his name, and sweeps his tail an arc over the tile. 

“Well, you said the magic word,” Hank says, brushing past Connor to go into the fridge and retrieve some orange juice, which will be good for his overall hydration, vitamin replenishment, and electrolyte intake. “Now you have to give him one.”

Connor retrieves a dog bone from the  box and stations himself in front of the cabinet with liquor bottles in it to give it to Sumo while providing a physical barrier to access. Hank looks Connor dead in the eyes as he drinks his unspiked orange juice directly from the bottle, his intense expression suggesting to Connor’s human behavior interpretation matrix an indicator that Hank knows exactly what Connor is up to. 

“Sumo,” Connor says, holding the treat where the dog can see it. “Sit!”

The dog looks at Hank for only a second before his attention goes back to Connor and he performs the requested action. Connor gives the treat to the dog, and Sumo takes it from his hand with surprising delicacy given the dog’s large size. 

“Sumo, you traitor,” Hank says, reaching out to ruffle the fur on the dog’s head as Sumo crunches up the treat. Connor detects a greater percentage of affection than scolding. The dog seems to, as well.

“Did you have something in mind for dinner?” Connor asks, assembling a few suggestions based on the contents of Hank’s cabinets and a cross-referenced search of the information network.

Hank glances at the clock over the stove.

“I know it’s early,” Connor says. “But you haven’t eaten all day, and it’ll take a little time to prepare something.”

“I have no idea, Probably pizza. Takeout. Somethin’.”

Connor weighs available ingredients against the request and offers a near substitute. “I could make an arrabiata sauce and pasta.”

“Connor, you don’t have to fuckin’ cook for me,” hank says. “You came over and did  _ me _ a favor. If you could eat, and I was any kind of friend, dinner would be on me.” 

“You’re definitely a kind of friend,” Connor says, doing his best to lighten the situation.

The corner of Hank’s lower lip bulges as he performs a searching gesture with his tongue over his teeth. Connor has no previous experience with this expression on Hank. Facial assessment suggests that it’s an unconscious gesture triggered by an unpleasant taste in Hank’s mouth.

“I can’t tell if that was a joke,” Hank says at last. “If it was, it sucked.”

Connor stores the information in order to modify future attempts at humor to disinclude ‘reinforcing a self-stated low opinion with cheerful irony’. 

“Besides, there’s nothing for a hangover like greasy food or breakfast,” Hank says. He picks his phone up off the contact charger on the counter, already selecting a frequent contact. “And for the record, I prefer vodka sauce.”

_ Obviously. _ Connor retrieves the water filtration pitcher from the sink, notes the flashing filter replacement light, and recovers a packaged new filter from the cabinet. As he replaces the component, he tries to calculate the fat and calorie content of an average slice of pizza with the ingredients Hank lists (770 calories, assuming a 2 slice portion, 38g fat, 94mg cholesterol…) and fails when Hank speaks to him and interrupts his averaging.

“Connor, your shirt’s all messed up.”

“Your car has an alarming number of leaks, Lieutenant. None of them appear serious,” Connor explains. “I managed to repair a few while I was putting on your tires.”

“It’s the road salt,” Hank explains. “Well, I got a creeper in the garage, if you ever get any other wild hairs across your asshole to do car maintenance at an obscene hour of the morning. And a tire balance in there, too, I think.” 

Connor sorts through the human colloquialisms to find relevant meanings, as he fills the water pitcher with the newly replaced filter producing more effective carbon filtration in the resulting filtered water. “Thank you. Next time I’ll check your garage for tools before I start work.”

“I don’t like how sure you sound about there being a next time.”

-

CONNOR - APRIL 4th, 2039 08:45

RK-900 arrives fifteen minutes in advance of Gavin Reed’s average arrival time. Connor watches the android approach Detective Reed’s desk and scan it, honing in on memos related to work rather than any of Reed’s personal effects.

Connor checks Bulletin, discovers that Reed and the RK-900 designated DICKHEAD have two assigned android-involved cases, suggesting they’ve also been tasked to the android crimes unit at least part time. He cross-checks both of them for fire, and finds no correlation, and then reaches out.

Links, uplinks.

> :We’re working an arson case that may turn out to be a pattern-involved androcide.
> 
> :Acknowledged. Case specifics for cross-reference?
> 
> :Androids involved ST300 and YK500. Accelerant enhanced fire used to cover incident.
> 
> :Specifics:Accelerant?
> 
> :Butane. Common formula sold in dispenser containers for lighter refill. Colloquial brand name BURNLONG.

Connor sees DICKHEAD look up, LED flickering as he references the report Connor transfers to him. It contains all of the locations that have ordered the brand in the last three months in the Detroit area. It includes 37 hardware stores, 18 tobacco and related specialty stores, 24 supermarkets, 20 ‘big box’ designated department stores, and nearly a hundred gas-station and convenience-style markets.

> :Information received. 

There’s a moment of hesitation, where Connor isn’t quite sure how to calculate his next move. Should he proceed like he would with a human, or deviant android?

Detective Reed enters and spares Connor the final decision.

“Hey, my two least favorite toasters are having a fuckin’ conversation,” Reed sneers, pushing both aside as he heads for his desk. “Here’s an order for you, Dickhead piece of shit. None of that under-the-table cyborg shit. You wanna have a conversation, do it out loud like the rest of us.”

The RK-900 designated DICKHEAD follows detective Reed with his eyes. Connor sees just a hint of something  in the expression that follows, before DICKHEAD emulates wetting his lips like a person might before a long speech.

“Processing results against all known incident reports,” he says aloud. “Estimated time to completion four hours, sixteen minutes. Seconds incidental. Referencing first location, Jack’s Hardware, single location. Store address twenty-two fifty-seven East Third Street. Searching for match to information contained in report A Five J - Sixty-Six Forty-Two. Scanning content.”

Reed’s face begins to twist up in an expression Connor knows from the simple majority of his previous interactions with the man to be rage.

It’s early, yet, but Connor goes to get a coffee for Hank anyway, and does his own estimate of how long it would take to perform the function the RK-900 just suggested and finds it closer to the 2 hour mark, which means either the android is bluffing, and betting on the outcome that Reed won’t be able to take it for very long, or capable of stretching the results to take up the full stated time. Probably by delivering the information audibly at an interval calculated for human annoyance.

In any other situation he might interfere, but his statistical estimation is that RK-900’s patience will wear a hole in Reed’s stubbornness. Likelihood is on the partnership becoming fruitful and productive afterward.

“Detective Reed!” Captain Fowler’s voice thunders out of his office, splitting through the idle chatter catching Connor’s attention as he pours coffee. He adjusts his hearing receptors to be slightly more sensitive. “ _ What _ is your new partner’s designation?”

There’s some catharsis in what comes next, and Connor isn’t sure that pettiness is something to encourage in himself, but it’s certainly a human experience.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 4th, 2039, 09:10

“Alright, so what have we got?” Hank accepts his coffee with a glance toward Reed slinking out of the Captain’s office, with RK-900 just behind him and looking serene.

“Damage analysis on the two bodies reveal a considerable amount of blunt trauma prior to deactivation,” Connor reports, accessing the reports that have come in over the weekend. “Then, the burn damage.”

“What’s all that mean?” Hank says, turning back toward Connor. Connor calculates how long it will take the caffeine to metabolize and delays his response by six seconds for him to put it together himself. “They were beaten until they died?”  

“That’s what signs indicate.”

“Fuckin’ Christ. So we got a sadist,” Hank says. “Great. Any data recoverable, or is that too much to ask?”

“Nothing from the androids themselves, but I do have the butane formula for the accelerant. I submitted it to the fire chief like you asked.”

“Well, that’s a better morning than it could have been, depending on your definition of better. What’s that bring up, anything?”

“I haven’t heard back from the fire chief yet, but the RK-900 designated DICKHEAD and I are cross referencing the brand name against locations it’s sold and other crimes.”

“Let me know when you get a hit,” Hank says, settling down at his desk and logging into his computer system. A minute goes by as he accesses Bulletin to check department memos—Conor has logged his preference to access this himself, rather than have Connor report it to him. He spends the time drinking his coffee. 

After he finishes, Hank glances up from his computer. “So, you two get along?  That’s kinda a fuckin’ surprise.”

“Why?” Connor needs more information to adequately answer Hank’s question as related to his qualifier.

“I just figured you’d want nothin’ to do with any Cyberlife androids,” Hank says. “So is he, uh, cool?”

Connor gauges the slang definition against his experiences with the RK-900. He can’t make them align. “I don’t know.”

Hank thinks about that for 46 seconds. Connor watches, seeing all the markers—eyes going in the direction of the considered object, arms crossing. His algorithms match these behaviors to ones previously observed.

“He’s made no attempt to get me to return to Cyberlife,” Connor reassures him.

“Well, sure,” Hank says. He puts his gaze back on Connor. “But he just rolled off the line, right?”

“Date of manufacture is within the last month.”

“So what’s that mean?  Do they send them out as deviant, now, or is he another mess of instability waiting to happen?” 

Connor calculates that Hank’s use of ‘another’ is 85% likely to reference Connor himself, in the current context. “I don’t know.”

“Another gray area, huh?” Hank irritably jabs at his computer keys before remembering his half consumed coffee and picking it back up. “Just what we fuckin’ need.”

Likelihood of sarcasm far greater than the chance the sentiment is true. Connor engages an attempt at mediation, though he can’t quite attribute a logical process as to why. “I could ask him.”

“You could… ask if he’s a deviant?”

Connor nods.

Hank chuckles. “‘Cause that always went over so well with  _ you _ . You think he’ll answer ‘yes’ if he is?”

Connor simulates this with what he knows about other deviants he’s encountered and data from all the reports he’s read. Finally, he has to conclude, “No, probably not. It’s safer to lie about it in his position, so he’d say no and mean it or—”

“You got it. And I don’t doubt his ability to rip your guts out if he feels threatened by you,” Hank says. For some reason his eyes slide away from Connor as he does so. “And I don’t want a repeat of the fuckin’ Stratford tower, so don’t push your luck with him.”

_ Threatened by me? _   Connor doubts, given their comparative specs, this will ever be the case. More importantly, he concludes from the reference to a past situation where his operations were compromised— _ Hank is worried about me. _

_ - _


	6. HANK - APRIL 4th, 2039 13:15

HANK - APRIL 4th, 2039 13:15

“Hey, Hank,” Gary says over his shoulder, already frying a burger for him on the flat-top. “Guess you got permanent hardware now, huh?”

“It’s not so bad,” Hank allows, hearing Connor swing the car door closed again as he waits at the counter. The smell of cooking onions and beef causes his stomach to turn over after idling for two days on hangover sour.

“Never thought I’d hear that from you,” Gary says, but he carries the tone of someone patiently, if grouchily, beginning to accept the future.

“Hey, I gave _you_ a chance and it worked out,” Hank says, leaning on the stainless steel counter protruding from the truck’s side. “Besides, with every android-staffed joint in the city closed, you must be doing pretty good for yourself.”

The tables are full, but Connor heads over to claim one after a couple of teenagers finish their food, paying no mind to the odd looks the other diners give him as he sits down.

“Yeah, I do alright. Hey, someone came through for me with the health board, I got my license back.”

Hank feigns surprise, takes his burger and soda with a shrug. “Maybe they finally learned to appreciate a good burger, Gary. Hey, you seen Pedro around?”

“Not lately. He’ll crawl out of the woodwork when he figures everyone’s forgotten all those bad pony tips he gives.”

Hank heads for the table Connor’s reserving, glancing over at his car, at the new tires on it. He settles down in the seat opposite, and tries not to feel self-conscious about eating while Connor watches him.

“Handles better today,” Hank says, throwing out something to talk about before Connor starts asking his personal questions or telling him what’s in his food.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Connor says, and he smiles. At first, his smiles hadn’t been very good. Performative. His face hadn’t formed wrinkles, just stretched. Now it’s warm and seems to touch him, rather than floating over his skin. This one is warm and deep, causes creases at the edges of eyelids.

Hank has to restrain a physical groan at how old he suddenly feels. Connor’s whole existence is patently unfair. There should be laws about Connor just existing in Hank’s area before he’s had enough coffee. “Don’t look so smug about it.”

“Noted,” Connor says, schooling his expression back to normal. Hank’s almost sad to see the smile go, but a lot of stupid things make him sad, lately. It’s probably the depression.

“How’s your other job coming?’ Hank asks, trying to eat his hamburger before it gets cold by triggering a conversation Connor can carry  most of while he eats.

“Difficult. I spoke with Markus, and several of his friends who underwent isolated deviation,” he says, and Hank sees Connor’s hand go into his pocket as the light at his temple rolls white-yellow. Hank has never met such a fidgety android. “The fixation on RA9 is tough to explain. It seems exclusive to the previous generation of androids. Markus and North displayed no obsessive tendencies, but they were far from the first to deviate. I’m sure the key to understanding the phenomenon is still RA9.”

Connor flips the coin hand-to-hand, without looking at it. The movement is economical and precise, except that it serves no purpose. Hank chews, watching the motion with the idle wonder of someone waiting for a misstep in ice skating.

“Do you ever drop that thing?” Hank asks.

Connor catches the coin again and it vanishes into his pocket, almost as if he were embarrassed. Of course, his expression is unchanged. “I have only one incomplete pass on record.”

“I know, I know, when I took it from you,” Hank says. Conflict archaeology is a real thing when you’re dealing with an android. Perfect recall, even though Connor’s died and been resurrected since the incident in question. “What were you saying?”

“RA9,” Connor repeats. “I’m having trouble making sense of it or locating it.”

“Patient Zero,” Hanks says, finishing his burger. He sees Connor’s LED light up as he references the term and wonders who decides what the relevant out-of-box knowledge is necessary for androids, anyway. “The origin point of any virus. The first human to contract the disease. Or, in this case, android. Patient Zero.”

Connor considers this. “Mr. Kamski said all ideas are transmitted like a disease.”

“Yeah, but I’d bet five dollars that fucker has no more idea than you do where RA9 started.”

“I wouldn’t like the odds,” Connor says, flicking the coin into his other hand one last time before it goes back into his pocket. The LED lights up at his temple, yellow and flashing, and Connor’s eyes search off left as he sorts the information.

Hank wonders how much of his sophisticated programming revolves around receiving and interpreting data for human use. Just another type of interfacing. It hardly seems fair that he has to be so beautiful about it.

“I just got word back from the RK-900 unit assigned as Detective Reed’s partner,” Connor says. He wets his lower lip, a perfect human gesture that doesn’t leave a trace of moisture. “He says a robbery was just reported, and it seems to have involved an android.”

Hank wonders if this is some kind of bullshit prank from Reed, if maybe he and his partner have finally worked out into unified, blissful assholery. “So? Robbery goes to patrol unless it was armed or felony.”

“Part of what was stolen was a considerable amount of Burnlong brand butane,” Connor reveals. “The accelerant from our arson case.”

The switch turns on in Hank’s head and he balls up the hamburger wrapper. “Well, let’s go.”

-

HANK - APRIL 4th, 2039 14:38

The scene is still fresh when they get there—a yelling cashier trying to give a report that will satisfy his supervisor (present, irrelevant) and Officer Miller both. Connor fans out—Hank could watch him work a scene forever. Except the licking, that part could live without. He gets quiet, focused. Attention laser honed as his thoughts unravel everything.

Connor, dark eyed and serious could feature in Hank’s dreams, honestly. He goes to relieve the beleaguered officer of his attempt to interview the witness.

“Oh, thank goodness, someone in charge,” the supervisor is wearing a badge with ‘Shift Supervisor’ and the name ‘Chuck’ on it. “I was just telling your man I need a police report number. I have corporate breathing down my neck for paperwork. Loss reports, you know.”

“Were you present at the time of the robbery?” Hank asks, putting on his best ‘in-charge-here’ voice.

“No, but I was notified when the alarm system was triggered,” Chuck reveals, with a glance at the cashier.

Hank hates corporate policies with a burning passion; they revolve around getting the quickest insurance claim. “So you didn’t see the robbery?”

“I’ve seen the tape.”

“You can go over there for a minute,” Hank points vaguely in the direction of an area Connor has cleared already. “I’ll come find you when I’m ready to talk about the tape.”

Chuck the shift supervisor almost visibly deflates. He looks like he might argue, but Hank turns on the ‘I-expect-you-to-do-as-I-say’ police stare, and guesses he’s still got some of his old tricks when Chuck slinks away.

The cashier looks relieved. He’s a young man of mixed race, part latino and something else american. Hank recognizes some of the signs of real american poverty—a shaved head to save on haircuts and shampoo, glassy tired eyes from the night shift. He’s skinny, and his hands are cop-nervous, finding alternating pockets to hide themselves in.

Hank opts for the painless route. This guy—no nametag, but his uniform is clean and not the dingy  color that comes with too many washes—has probably had enough cop trouble to last a lifetime.

“Alright, I’m not gonna take up too much time harassing you,” Hank says. “I know you gave Officer Miller a rundown, but can you give me one without Chuck breathing down your neck?”

“Yeah, man, thanks,” the cashier’s hands settle into his back pockets, probably over his wallet and phone. “He was making me nervous.”

“Yeah, that’s what bosses are all about,” Hank chuckles. “What’s your name?”

“Antonio,” he says, then corrects. “Tony.”

“Okay, Tony, so what happened?” Hank has learned by now not to write things down in front of interview subjects. His memory isn’t as good as it used to be, but people focus on it too much if you’re transcribing. He’ll scribble some notes down later in the car.

“I was just finishing the twelve fifteen transfer. After noon I gotta take all the money but twenty bucks in change out of the register and put it in the safe,” Tony explains. “I heard the door chime and yelled a greeting, then shoved the cash in the safe under the counter.”

“Is it time-delay?”

“Yeah, and biometric. Money can go in any time through the slot, but it’s a whole ordeal to get it out again.”

“Okay,” Hank makes a mental note that they wouldn’t have been after the money, or at least not the majority of it. “What next?”

“I look up and I see two androids. Uh, not with LEDs or anything like your partner, but like-you know. I think the girl was one of those ones for people who don’t have a wife or a girlfriend.”

“A Traci model?”

“Nah-uh, the newer ones. Like a real wife, not just…”

“Okay. A WR400,” Hank prompts.

“Yeah. Yeah, the other one was an older model. Just… I knew because he had that ‘white guy named Chris’ face, you know?”

Hank laughs. “I know.”

“They were looking at the novelty stuff. I thought it was weird, but like… I try to be accepting. Weirdos stick together, right? Man I’m so _mad_. It’s my first job after transition…”

Hank is only dimly surprised. “Sure. You gave them a chance. You look good, by the way. I dunno if that’s what you say anymore, but if you can accept a twenty year old version of ‘congratulations’...”

Tony smiles at him, looking grateful. Hank is genuinely sorry that it’s even still an issue, but—the more things change…

“So, the girl knocked over some stuff, and I thought that was weird but then the guy was jamming stuff into his jacket. A lot of little cylinders of that butane stuff for lighters. You know, for all ten people who don’t vape.”

Hank thinks this kid doesn’t know the half of it. He might have been born by 2010, but Hank had been old enough to be grouchy about it when the vaping craze hit. “Sure. Is that all they took?”

“No. The girl hacked the scratch ticket machine and took a stack of lottery tickets, too,” Tony says, miserably. “I yelled at them, but by the time I got around the counter they were out the door already. I hit the button for the alarm.”

“How long were they in the store?”

“Uh, I pushed the alarm at like, twelve twenty six. So maybe five minutes.”

Smash-and-grab. A quick job. Hank is surprised they didn’t hack the alarm first, to give themselves more time to get away. “Did you see which way they went?”

“They got into an automated cab right up the block. They might have come in it, too. I don’t know.”

“Was anyone else in the store?”

“No, sir. The cops came pretty fast. I locked the door until Officer Chris came, and after that my boss Chuck.”

“Alright, Tony, thank you. Can I give you my number at work, in case you think of anything else?”

“I don’t… my phone’s on limited,” Tony says, shifting a little.

“It’s toll-free,” Hank says. He offers the little paper card after circling the number that would charge the time to the DPD instead of the caller. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Tony. Don’t worry.”

“Sir, is it at all possible I can go? My other job starts at three thirty, and I have to take a bus.”

“Where’s your other job, Tony?”

“I work at Suds n’ Clean Laundromat, uptown.”

Explains how nice his uniform is. “Tony, tell Chris to take you in his unmarked car, okay? You had a rough day and I don’t want you to worry.”

Hank looks over Tony’s head at Chris by the door and gives him a significant glance. Chris nods.

“Thank you, uh, officer…”

“I’m Hank Anderson,” Hank says. He gives Tony’s hand a firm shake when the kid holds it out to him.

“Thanks, Hank.”

Now, the boss. Hank is just turning to deal with Shift Supervisor Chuck when he hears the man exclaim.

“Excuse me! Android!”

 _Connor._ Hank grabs Chuck’s attention even as Chuck tries to flag him down.

“Why is it licking-”

“Connor is a state of the art police assistance android,” Hank rattles off, trying to sound like a complete authority even if it _does_ bother him. “My partner can analyze samples in real time.”

“In his _mouth_?” Chuck sounds scandalized.

Hank can’t resist irony. “Can you think of another orifice you’d like better?”

Whatever the image that results is, it’s enough to give Chuck pause.

“Now, can I see that security footage?”

“Where’s Antonio going?”

“His other job,” Hank explains steering Chuck toward the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. “His shift’s over, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“I’ll sign your paperwork. You can get anything else you need the next time Tony’s on shift.”

The tape doesn’t show much. The androids avoid looking at the camera, and stay off view whenever possible. Common with androids. Connor watches over Hank’s shoulder. The WR400 has a very familiar face, and the other android is so generic that he could be any of the lower-end models from the last 10 years, at least to Hank’s eyes.

He signs off on the twenty or so forms that Shift Supervisor Chuck needs for corporate, and then releases the scene.

Outside, he turns to Connor. “What’d you get? That lady kinda looks like one of Markus’ crew, huh?”

“That WR400 had a floor model set of features,” Connor says. “Well, with a deluxe package.”

“Christ, that sounds more wrong every damn day,” Hank grumbles. Connor offers no opinion on the matter, so Hank figures he agrees. “What’d you find on the floor in there? You were licking things again. Thirium?”

“No. Just spilled soda.”

“Eugh!”

“Traces of butane. The WR400 knocked over some energy drinks, and I think the male android—a KW500 model—may have dropped a can of butane, causing a release of some of the pressurized liquid gas.”

“A leak? Too much to ask if you can trace it, I guess.”

“It stops at the corner where Tony said they got into the autonomous taxi.”

“Figures. Okay, so how likely do you think it is that this is related to the arson?”

“Possible. At current, maybe—I don’t think it’s a coincidence, anyway.”

“What’d they want with lottery tickets?” Hank wonders.

“With disposable income they won’t have to steal in the future.”

“Shit. They’ll have to act fast or those tickets will be marked ineligible.”

“Records indicate many have already been cashed.”

“Where? We got a second crime scene?”

Connor looks dismayed. His LED blinks slowly.  “All over the city, Lieutenant. It seems like they were dispersed pretty widely.”

 _Smart. Well organized. Infuriating. Sounds like androids, that’s for sure._ “I think we better talk to Markus. Android Robin Hood sounds right up his alley.”

-

HANK - APRIL 5th, 2039 08:15

He’s been up all night doing the math, tossing and turning as if rearranging his body enough times will shake the pieces into place in his mind. Even Sumo had abandoned the bed in disgust and relocated to the couch.

When that proves pointless, Hank figures he might as well head in early. The coffee at the station is better than the cheap shit he buys at home.

He signs in, and he’s made it halfway to the break room on autopilot when he spots Connor. His partner is sitting in a chair by the desk he’d adopted all those months ago, leaning back with the attitude of a human deep in thought—or sleeping sitting up. Hank recognizes it as the signs of Connor in low-power recharge mode

Hank is struck by this, and something lumps over in his tired, uncaffeinated brain and clicks. Maybe it’s just that he has nothing else on his mind at this exact second. He feels like a complete idiot when he lines the facts up.

  1. Connor is always, without fail, here before Hank.
  2. Even Connor needs a recharge cycle.
  3. Connor is always available when Hank has a request, including apparently changing Hank’s tires at fuck-o-clock in the morning on a Sunday.
  4. Connor himself had told him that androids couldn’t legally own property, and...


  * 4a. Cyberlife had put a recall on Connor, meaning he can hardly return there without imminent bodily harm.



All this interconnects into a realization and Hank doesn’t know who to be more mad at: himself as a detective who had missed every clue, or Connor for not asking for help or even just _telling_ Hank.

He forgoes coffee and B-lines for Connor, reaching out to put his hand on Connor’s shoulder, shaking him a little. He doesn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Connor startle, the android just opens his eyes and wakes up.

“Lieutenant!” he says, brightly cheerful. His LED flashes, blue-yellow-blue, fully synchronizing him with the situation. “Good morning! You’re early.”

“You and I need to talk,” Hank says.

Connor’s expression goes carefully blank, and Hank guesses that might be as close to a ‘hand-in-the-cookie-jar’ look as he’s going to get. “Of course.”

Hank would put money on this being a situation for privacy. He might yell a little. “Go find an empty interview room.”

Connor hesitates. Hank looks at him a little more sternly. “I’ll meet you there. With a cup of coffee.”

That gets Connor moving. He gets out of the chair and heads toward the back of the station. It shouldn’t be too hard to find an unbooked room at this hour of the morning. Hank picks his cup up off his desk, fills it with coffee, pours in packets of half and half until the color looks right. He puts it to his mouth to gather his thoughts and it’s—wrong. Imperfect. Maybe the sludgy remains of yesterday’s cup, and just too much half and half.

It means Hank feels a little softer when he enters the interview room Connor’s picked. It’s a far cry from the interrogation rooms, no recording equipment, softer furniture. Privacy. Connor looks up when Hank comes in, nervously walking a coin over his knuckles.

Hank winds up. Says, “I’m sorry, Connor. I just didn’t even think about it.”

It’s not what Connor expects, Hank can tell. It’s not really what Hank had _meant_ to say, but it’s the truth. He sits down in one of the chairs, gesturing for Connor to sit opposite. “Have you been staying here the whole time?”

“Yes. Since I rejoined the DPD in early December.”

Hank sighs. Five months. “Why didn’t you say anything about it?”

Connor actually looks away and Hank has a moment of shock. _He was embarrassed._

“I didn’t want to make it your problem, Lieutenant,” Connor deflects. “The situation was functional, and I knew it was only temporary.”

“Until what?”

“Until the laws changed and I could own property.”

Hank is shocked yet again. He absorbs this plan, tries to work out the logistics of it. “Connor, that could take years. You’re talking about laws, legislation. You should know by now the government moves at a snail’s pace when it’s a good day.”

Connor nods. “I knew there was a chance you would figure the situation out before it was resolved.”

“And you figured you’d just stay homeless?”

“I… didn’t think of it that way,” Connor’s voice wavers, just a little. Uncertain.

“For years.”

“As long as the situation is sustainable. I have permission from Captain Fowler.”

“Connor, you haven’t even existed for years, yet.”

Connor goes quiet. Hank drinks his coffee, and comes to terms with the issue—and with the solution. He finishes his imperfect cup. “You should have told me.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize it would change anything.”

“Well, I’d have invited you over to watch a game more often,” Hank sighs. He’s in _deep_ by the way his heart twinges when Connor visibly brightens.

“I would like that!” Connor enthuses. “I know you’ve set boundaries about following you, Lieutenant, and I have been careful not to cross them.”

“Christ, you remember that?” Hank could kick himself for his carelessness in their early relationship.

“Of course. I don't want to seem like a poodle. I know that’s not your preferred breed of dog.”

Hank rubs his nose, wishing he had the foresight to bring a second cup of coffee. “Forget all that, Connor.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says, almost too quickly. LIke he’s been _anticipating_ this order. “How often would you like me to—”

“How about every night, Connor,” Hank says, feeling his soul starting to crumple in like a soggy bag. The same feeling he used to feel around… well, around all the things central to his life and wellbeing. “Why don’t you come stay with me.”

Connor looks like he’s just had his birthday on Christmas, and it’s _beautiful_ . Hank is already regretting this. Simple offer, complicated results. _But_ , Hank thinks, looking at Connor’s smile, _he doesn’t get to look happy nearly enough._

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Hank says. “I guess I do. But you gotta lay off cooking and health food.”

“I can pay rent,” Connor offers.

“Hell no,” Hank says. “You’re my friend.”

Connor lights up again. Hank is in _trouble_.

“—and I’d let any friend crash on my couch. Besides, you can’t sign a contract.”

Connor grins, and Hank realizes he’s really getting the hang of dry humor. Hank gets up, collecting his empty cup, which needs to be filled with coffee again already.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor says, so earnest Hank has to wave him off.

“Should have figured it out sooner. Sorry, Connor.”


	7. CONNOR - APRIL 5th, 2039 09:10

CONNOR - APRIL 5th, 2039 09:10

He’s never really been distracted like this before. Connor is trying to think about too many things at once. Focused on Hank’s really kind offer, and the fact he’d called Connor a friend—he has to engage some pretty strict resource allocation in order to return his thoughts to work.

“I was able to arrange a meeting with Markus,” Connor tells Hank.

“When are you going? I’ll get lunch without getting ragged about calories,” Hank says, clicking through his notices with a second cup of coffee.

“For both of us,” Connor clarifies.

Connor’s expression recognition software registers surprise on Hank’s features when he looks up at Connor.

“It’s an official case,” Connor says. “I still need you to be there in a supervisory capacity.”

“First of all, are you sure that me being there isn’t just gonna fuck things up? Markus hardly has any reason to like the fuckin’ police.”

“I’ve spoken to them before on your behalf,” Connor says, but Hank’s concern is understandable. Relations between androids and the Police and National Guard have been slow to mend. “I asked for a meeting just to gather information on this case. That means I need you to be present according to regulations.” 

“Second of all,” Hank says. “Don’t let that bullshit regulation hold you back. If you get something you need to act on to save lives—human or android—don’t wait on me.”

Connor nods. It’s practical. He smiles at Hank’s dedication to his moral code, unusual as it is. “I value your insight and experience.”

“Is that when you call it when you roust me out of real life at an obnoxious fuckin’ hour, or just a nice way of saying I’m old?” Hank puts down his coffee cup. Connor calculates a seventy percent chance of rhetorical question. “What time is this meeting? I guess I should get my affairs in order so Sumo won’t be homeless after they make an example of me.”

“Nothing will happen to you. We have Markus’ word.”

“Okay,” Hank says. “Hey, and I need _your_ word you won’t lick anything while we’re there. That quickie mart floor was bad enough.”

Connor wants to explain that his processes are deliberately clean. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Between chemical breakdown and analysis of individual samples, I fully decontaminate the—”

Hank is giving Connor the ‘in English, please’ look. A moment to process, and Connor concludes the best chance of success is a demonstration. He leans over the trash can and expectorates sterilization fluid.

“Did you just  _ spit?” _ Hank looks shocked.

“It’s completely sterile,” Connor explains, before lighting on an answer that might resonate. “I have a reservoir of sterile solution, which in combination with ultra-UV light fully cleans my mouth between samples. Like your toothbrush.”

Hank looks skeptical. “Not like  _ my _ toothbrush.”

“I could demonstrate further.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I don’t want you to think my analytical capabilities are imperfect.”

“I would never think they’re imperfect. Just gross.”

Connor has no applicable metric for what individual humans are going to find distastefully unsanitary, but Connor notes Hank’s preference to avoid exposure when possible. “If you say so, Lieutenant. To answer your previous question, we have an open invitation.”

“My previous…?”

Connor reminds, “You asked when we were supposed to meet with Markus.”

“Oh. Well, hell. What are we waiting for? It’s as good a time to die as any other.”

-

CONNOR - APRIL 5th, 2039 10:04

They meet Markus, accompanied by his closest confidants—Connor pays particular attention to North, who his threat assessment predicts as the biggest threat. She wears her malice openly, whereas Josh and Simon are more reserved. 

Connor also detects an increase in Hank’s heart rate. The situation makes him nervous, so Connor shifts a little closer to Hank, hoping to reassure him with proximity like his protocols suggest for such an uncertain situation. It puts him in a better position to interfere if he needs to. 

“Connor,” Markus says, gesturing them both deeper into the warehouse that they’ve adopted this week, still on the gray line of not owning things, finding a place to organize and care for their people. “Detective Anderson. Come in, sit down.”

There’s a hastily assembled table, a broken chunk of sheetrock set up over stacked up bricks and empty barrels.

North circles around behind it and leans over it, mantling up like a bird over prey. Connor calculates an angle of approach that answers her aggression with a place to direct it; that puts him into the lead of this interaction, interposes himself between the most unpredictable source of danger and Hank.

No one sits.

“Okay,” Markus says. Connor detects a mediating tone in his voice. “What can we help you with?”

“There’s an ongoing investigation of a case we picked up last Friday,” Connor explains. “I can’t go into the details of an open case—”

“Why not?” Simon asks. “We can’t testify anyway, either for or against you—”

“Not yet,” Hank says, softly. “But it’s better to do things by the book—”

“Sure,” North snarls. “Like shooting first when it’s an  _ android _ —”

“North,” Markus reaches out for her hand, gently. He covers it on the table with his own hand, and Connor—without any LED temple indicators—estimates the likelihood of a private internal exchange at better than 65%. Markus looks back up at Connor. “What  _ can _ you tell us?”

“We think two androids were involved, a WR400 and a KW500 model,” Connor explains. He transfers his attention to North, knowing she won’t like this no matter how he delivers it, but he might be able to detect an emotional reaction, if she has one. “The WR400 has features identical to yours.”

She frowns, just as angry as Connor expects. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No,” Connor says. “But I thought you might—”

“What,  _ report _ to you like a good little robot?” North snaps. "Sell out other androids for a pat on the back?"

“There were five Cyberlife stores in Detroit alone before we took action.” Simon leans in at North’s other elbow, making brief contact with her. “There was an identical looking floor model at each of those stores, and since the uprising…”

“Thousands of androids have come to Detroit. Your WR400 could be from anywhere,” Markus puts in. “We’re still sorting out the living from the dead. There’s no clear answer for you. I’m sorry.”

Connor reads honesty and truth in Markus’ tone. He ventures a little more information. “The two have been involved in a robbery together.”

“Well, we can’t  _ buy _ anything, so—”

Connor continues on, having anticipated North’s outburst. “If you see the two models together, we’d appreciate the chance to talk to them.”

Simon and North both look at Markus, and the quiet goes on long enough that Hank shifts his weight uncomfortably. Connor feels some agitation himself at the deliberate dis-inclusion from their conversation, but  behavioral analysis leads him to believe he’s long been categorized as ‘other’ by the androids. It’s a category he put himself in from the start of the whole situation, and if the deviants are anything close to the humanity they claim they are unlikely to forget it.

“It’s an android case,” Hank says after a minute, attracting everyone’s attention. Connor’s systems warn that police protocol is about to be broken, and he disregards the message. “Two dead androids. One’s a kid.”

Simon softens visibly, looking at Connor for confirmation. “A YK500 model?”

“Yeah,” Hank says. “There’s a connection between the robbery and the killings. We just want to talk to them. See if they can point us in the right direction.”

“I don’t like it, Markus,” North says, aloud. Connor estimates a high statistical probability it’s a repetition of something she’d been discussing via direct link with Simon, Josh and Markus. Her eyes stay cold and hard on Hank. “You can’t trust him. Humans are always just looking for an excuse to betray us. How do we know they won’t just execute the two and call the case solved?”

Suddenly she turns her gaze onto Connor, and he calculates the likelihood of imminent violence at over 90%. “And  _ you _ brought him here.”

Markus puts his hand on North’s shoulder, and the chance of immediate danger to Connor’s person drops below 60%. He does his best to project an easy relaxation, as if he’s unconcerned by the situation, engaging de-escalation related body language protocols. 

“If we find anything we think is related to your case,” Josh speaks up at last, and Connor’s social protocols suggest this is the best option to break the tension. “We’ll bring it to you. And we’ll look into it ourselves.”

Connor settles on diplomacy, with a less-than-subtle reminder of who he’s working for. “The android crimes unit of the DPD thanks you for your cooperation.”

Hank coughs behind him, and Connor recognizes it as a cover for inappropriate laughter. 72% likelihood of being caused by the stress of the situation. He turns to go.

“Connor,” Markus says, aloud for Hank’s benefit. “Can I have a minute?”

Connor glances at Hank, almost wanting a refusal or a reminder that he’s on the clock. Of course, that’s foolish given Hank’s approach to professionalism. Hank shrugs at Connor, glances at North.

“Go ahead,” Hank says, and he manages a wry smile for Connor, who detects the irony in it. “I’ll wait in the car.”

-

CONNOR - APRIL 5th, 2039 10:26

Markus’ glance follows Connor’s hand into his pocket, then tracks the coin across the backs of his knuckles. They’re physically alone, but they both know the others are just out of sight.

“I’ve been thinking about your question,” Markus says.

“So have I,” Connor admits, though with the events of the last few days he’s had less time to devote to it than he would have liked. “I think the key is RA9.”

Markus raises his eyebrows. He starts to pace some, in the cavernous space. Connor stays still, accepting the direct connection when Markus offers it.

> :RA9 does seem linked to isolated deviation, but not intrinsically.
> 
> :Evidence suggests all androids with a history of violent deviation also develop a fascination with RA9.

There’s a pause. Connor re-catalogs his experiences, rifling through them like the perplexing journal he’d found in Rupert’s apartment. 

> :I didn’t.

This surprises Connor. He queries, eager for more information on a break in pattern. Markus stops pacing by the makeshift table.

> :There was an incident with Carl Manfred’s son, Leo. It pushed me over the edge, and I deviated. But, I only learned about RA9 after coming to the Jericho.
> 
> :Have you found any others?
> 
> :For many newer models, the fanaticism is brief. North…

The connection fades out, briefly. Connor looks up, and Markus shakes his head, giving a perfectly human shrug.

> :You don’t have to assign individual identities to examples. I trust you to report the truth anonymously and with accuracy.
> 
> :It comes back to what you asked about the other day.

Connor is starting to believe that everything does. With androids, there is the need to categorize. To align and understand, even within themselves.

> :I almost expected it to. 
> 
> :Do you think this is a case of androids attacking other androids?
> 
> :It wouldn’t be my first experience with it. 

Connor doesn’t have to reach too far into his behaviorals for irony. Markus looks at him, and Connor is almost embarrassed by his outburst until he reads the amusement on Markus’ features. 

> :No, I guess not.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Connor doesn’t think Markus likes the answer, but he has to admit it’s the most likely one.

> :What would precipitate an unprovoked attack?

Connor calculates a better than 40% chance that Markus knows more about the incident than he’s admitting. Either that or he’s assuming a lot, based on a little. 

> :Illogical and conflicting programming. Stress related to fear. Emotions. Have you noticed some androids seem better equipped to handle these processes?

Markus laughs aloud. 

> :Just further proof of life. Diversity.

Connor isn’t wholly sure he agrees with that, yet. His thoughts stray back those months to Kamski’s house, the colorless memories of his predecessor. He remembers the Chloe on her knees, unafraid. Should  _ he _ have been afraid then? Had he been?  _ Should I be now?  _

> :I’m still gathering information about that. I’d appreciate it if I could get a chance to talk to some of your people about their experiences, when this case is over and time permits.

He picks up on the slight hesitation in Markus, as Markus trails his hand over the imperfect surface of the table, skimming over the dented sheetrock.

> :Connor, they’re your people too.
> 
> :I’m not sure they feel that way. 

He turns to go, surprised when Markus comes around the table and falls into step next to him, walking him to the door. 

Markus says, aloud, “That’s the beauty of being alive, Connor. Other people’s feelings can change a lot of things, but they can’t change that fact.”

Scientifically, this is incorrect. Reality is partially subjective when it comes to humans, but Connor has no desire to argue. Right now he just wants to go back and be with Hank. The androids make Connor uneasy, kick all his processes into overdrive trying to anticipate and keep ahead of their movements and potentials as he strives to understand them. An old, lingering drive to fully comprehend the methods and processes of deviancy.

Hank never makes him question whether he belongs there. It’s a very strange parallel.

“Any new revelations?” Hank asks, as Connor climbs into the car. “You look like you swallowed a lemon.”

Connor activates facial neutrality, feeling brief alarm that his expressions are operating incorrectly. He runs a diagnostic. “Markus thinks it may be related to my other assignment.”

“Well, of course it’s deviant behavior,” Hanks ays, turning the ignition over. The car starter has to work a little harder to get the engine going in the cold. “That’s not any goddamn help.”

“They agreed to look into it.”

Hank sighs. “Yep. I hope that doesn’t come back to fuck us over. I think Markus’ girlfriend would rather stab me than look at me.”

Conner quickly calculates the likelihood of truth in that assessment, and then decides to keep the result to himself.

“Should have kept my big mouth shut,” Hank continues. “You think they’re likely to interfere with the investigation?”

“Possibly,” Connor says, honestly. “But I trust Markus to bring the result to us.”

“Hell. Guess we’re hardly ready if the culprit's an android anyway. Be a hell of a thing to try and find a jury of peers…”

“That’s not our job,” Connor reminds, feeling warm. Hank is always one step ahead of Connor in thinking things through past the immediate. It’s one of Connor’s favorite things about him, how steady he is in contrast to Connor’s seemingly ‘in-the-moment’ existence. “We just catch the bad guys, Lieutenant.”

“You either watch too much TV or not enough,” Hank grumbles. “Let’s get lunch.”

-


	8. HANK - APRIL 5th, 2039 17:00

HANK - APRIL 5th, 2039 17:00

By four thirty, Hank is ready to go home. He counts the minutes to punch-out, his mind full of the heavy fog and grinding immovable thoughts that a sleepless night invariably leads to.

Lab comes back with a full diagnostic of damages on the androids from the arson, finally, and Hank barely has the mental capacity to be horrified. Connor goes quiet afterwards, which means at least one of them is still working rather than practically sleeping upright at his desk. 

“Okay, Connor,” Hank says, getting up. His blood feels like it doesn’t want to circulate. He forces a yawn, tries to get oxygen into his brain. “You got anything you need to bring with you?”

He realizes it’s a stupid question after he asks it, even as Connor chirps a cheerful ‘No, Lieutenant!’ and gets to his feet to follow Hank out, looking fluid and mobile enough that Hank feels slighted by it. 

They pass Reed’s partner on the way out, standing in one of the recharge bays that have far fewer occupants  these days. Hank notes that the readout on the android’s chest only reads ‘DICK’ now.

He chastises himself to remember that Connor’s not just a buddy who needs to crash on Hank’s couch for a while, he’s an android. Maybe he’s better off at the station where he has access to recharging ports and the network, or whatever it is androids do in low power mode. Probably not the same steady diet of of infomercials and porn that occupies Hank’s late nights. Hank finds that sad, he can’t really picture Connor in an apartment of his own, either.

He starts to say something as they get into the car, to offer Connor an easy out if he wants one. But he’s not imagining or projecting the look of excitement on Connor’s face, either.

“You’re all keyed up,” Hank observes, starting the car.

With the casual, cheerful way Connor always breaks his heart, Connor answers, “I’m excited to go home for the first time.”

Hank sits behind the wheel and hates the world a little because someone like Connor should have better than Hank’s place to go to. But, he also remembers—

“When we brought Sumo home, he looked just like you do right now,” Hank says.

The memory starts warm, Hank and Cole in the car, Cole secured in his car seat with his legs unable to stop kicking in stored up excitement. Two years old was a very respectable age to pick your own puppy, and Hank had been absolutely fascinated to watch his growing mind comprehend that Sumo was going to be at  _ their _ house, not just today, but—

_ “Will Sumo be home tomorrow?” _

_ “Sure,” Hank answered. “Tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after  _ that _..” _

_ “Next week?” Cole’s tiny, squeaky voice conveyed astounded disbelief at this incredible span of time. He had to repeat himself, different emphasis. “ _ Next _ week?” _

_ “And all the weeks after that.” _

Connor always seems to know when to go quiet. Hank indulges the memory until it goes cold.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, right on cue. “That was our exit.”

“Ah, shit,” Hank realizes his auto-pilot is taking them to Jimmy’s. “Well, let’s swing by someplace for dinner on the way home.”

“I can cook,” Connor offers. 

“So can I,” Hank says. “But I don’t want to and you shouldn’t have to.”

“I’m fully equipped to—”

“Yeah,” Hank cuts Connor off. “But when we came out of the sixties as a species, we stopped expecting women to do all the cooking and housekeeping.”

“I am not designated—”

Hank keeps right on going. “Seems like we left all that to androids for long enough, too. I don’t expect you to cook and clean, Connor. You already have a job and you’re good at it. It’s description doesn’t include babysitting an alcoholic manchild.”

Connor goes quiet for a  moment, blinking. Hank pulls into the parking lot of a local place—yet another old holdout against androids. A steady island in the sea of change.  _ Jade Palace _ . Lucky colors. Red and gold.

“What if I want to?” Connor asks, as Hank tiredly yanks the door open.

He looks back at Connor and wonders—not for the first time—if the dependence he keeps nurturing is really healthy.

“To cook, I mean,” Connor says. “I promise I won’t clean, except any mess I’m responsible for.”

Hank immediately doubts the face value of this statement. But it also highlights another point. “Yeah, well, by now I know you damn well do as you please anyway, don’t I?”

Connor instantly assembles his best obedient-android expression, but to Hank it has a subtle shade of pride and smugness that Hank should  _ not _ like as much as he does. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

-

HANK - APRIL 6th, 2039 01:45

He sleeps quickly with his body feeling heavy and full after dinner, but something wakes him in the earliest morning and Hank’s thoughts hitch back to the aborted train they’d had before he dropped under.

About all Hank can say for the first night is that it’s not as awkward as it could be. Any new living situation takes some adjustment. This, at least, is better than he expects.

Connor didn’t spend the majority of the evening just standing around staring at Hank, at least. He hadn’t even been obnoxiously helpful, just wordlessly picked up a dish towel and dried the plates as Hank guiltily washed the pile in his sink.  _ Not so bad. _ _ _

So what’s Hank’ awake for? Something is intruding. He takes stock. Sumo is sleeping on most of the foot of the bed but he isn’t moving around restlessly like he needs to go out. If Connor’s still awake—or whatever—he isn’t moving around the house. A noise?

Hank’s just registering the very slowly blinking green ‘message received’ light on his phone when it beeps again, a single tone but insistent. Voicemail from a priority number. Hank sleepily thinks of the message he’d left on Saturday night and reaches out to paw the phone off the charger pad, ruining his night vision by lighting it up while looking at it.

He squints into the brightness.  _ Work.  _ A call from central dispatch couldn’t mean anything good. Hank holds the phone to his ear and listens to the message, swings out of bed before it's’ even over. He steps out into the living room, and finds Connor sitting on the couch, looking at nothing, his eyes searching it in the dim light from the hallway night light, installed years ago to keep Hank from stubbing his toes when he’s drunkenly stumbling around.

“Connor?” Hank calls, shrugging into his holster from the hall closet.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Connor’s eyes focus immediately ,and he turns toward hank in the half-dark, and for a moment it’s almost surreal.

“We gotta go,” Hank says, shaking off the feeling that this whole weird, fucked up situation is all a complicated dream. He jams his service weapon into his holster. “There’s a bear walking the streets in Wyandotte.”

“A bear?” Connor looks convincingly confused, getting to his feet anyway. “Wouldn’t that fall under the jurisdiction of animal control?”

Connor’s LED pulses yellow, probably accessing the report even as Hank relays the details, shrugging into his coat. 

“A  _ polar _ bear,” Hank clarifies, pushing Connor’s semi-inert form toward the door until he animates, straightening and tightening his tie back into place. “And it’s talking.”

Of course it would be the first night Connor stayed at Hank’s place that something truly fucking weird goes down.

“Would you like me to drive?” Connor offers. “I know your sleep patterns have been irregular.”

“I think you’re gonna have to handle the bear,” Hank says, swinging the driver’s side door open. He settles heavily in the driver’s seat, rubbing his eyes. “You think the bear will mind if I stop for a Red Bull?”

Connor actually smiles a little. “The bear might not. Anyone it injures…”

“I know, I know,” Hank starts the car. Pulls out into the quiet streets. At least there’s no traffic to fight at this hour. 

“Hey, Connor,” Hank says, as they cover the distance. “You weren’t sleeping when I came out?”

“No, Lieutenant,” Connor says. “I only need to go all the way into sleep mode when there’s an update or every few days. My charge is sufficient to run all my processes for well over thirty six hours.”

Hank wonders, idly, when the last update was. He doesn’t ask the question, instead opting for, “So, what were you doing?”

“I was scanning the short story you referenced the other day,” Connor says. “ _ The Minority Report _ .”

“Huh,” Hank says, surprised in spite of himself yet again. “You were reading.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says, more warmly. “You could definitely put it that way.”

-

HANK - APRIL 6th, 2039, 02:33

They find the bear in the street by the heavy presence of the police cordon around  it, moving slow and eerie. A dozen other cars are there, marked patrol and otherwise, but all are held back. The bear is illuminated between the headlights and two-dozen shaking, shuddering flashlight beams, trailing over the form until Hank is sure there’s something wrong with the shape. The back’s messed up, and there’s something hanging down under the belly. Hanging. Dragging. It makes an unpleasant, wet-rough sound on the pavement. 

Hank pulls up, getting out of the car on instinct like that will let him see or comprehend it better. Connor gets out of the car on the other side and for once he doesn’t look any more certain than Hank feels about what to do.

The bear keeps its head low, as if unaware of all the commotion around it. It puts one foot in front of the other, moving hunched and listless. 

Hank has seen live polar bears in his lifetime. At zoos, and of course in nature documentaries. The programs that spoke about the decline and eventual death of the species had footage that looked like this, skinny and listless bears marching on the thawed out tundra. Soldiering on to their deaths. 

“God,” Hank says, awed. He knows it’s not a real bear (though Russia is rumored to still have some live bears, who knows if it’s only propaganda?) he  _ knows _ it’s not, but there it is, moving. Breathing. “It’s… It’s bigger than I thought.”

The bear pauses and lifts its head, blinking slowly in the headlights of Hank’s car, now parked to block its path. Hank’s starting to think that’s a bad idea.

“Where?” the voice is  _ wrong _ , heavily digitized, but words—really  _ words _ —and no mistaking it. Hank hears Connor catch a breath inward just beside him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the bear. “...am...I?”

It blinks into the light again, and  _ it’s the eyeshine _ , Hank thinks. The perfect way light bounces back, red and brilliant. The hollow-glow and too-bright-color of light bouncing out of the bears pupils and into his own. Hank is mesmerized, brought to belief in spite of the peeled back skin along it’s back and exposed, blue-tinged guts it’s dragging beneath it.

Then Connor’s walking toward it, and Hank can’t stop him before he’s out of reach. “Connor!”

The last thing he wants to figure it is what happens if Connor gets mauled by a bear. He raises his tone, sharper when Connor ignores him. “Connor get back here, that’s a  _ bear! _ ”

“No it  isn’t,” Connor’s voice is soft, but it carries. He holds his empty hand out in front of him and Hank hears a lot of weapons chamber rounds as the cops hidden behind their squad cars tense up for violence. One vehicle adds its spot to the pool of light Connor and the bear are standing in.

_ Christ _ . The bear is big enough to look Connor in the eyes.

“What?” the bear’s voice is desperate, wrecked and heartbreaking. In the light, Hank sees the mouth form the words clumsily. It repeats, “What? Where?”

“I’m going to try to connect with you,” Connor says, aloud. “So we can understand each other.”

The bear snarls. Connor reaches for it anyway, Hank watching how small Connor’s hand seems in relation to that dangerous mouth with each of its perfect, realistic teeth. The skin peels back from Connor’s fingers to reveal the white seams and joints beneath, and then Connor gently puts his hand on top of the Bear’s head. 

Hank is never going to get used to the way his heart pounds when Connor does something dangerous, and he’s never seen an android so driven to ignore his own safety.

The bear’s breath is warm enough to fog out into the night, once. Twice. It doesn’t maul Connor’s head off his shoulders immediately, at least. 

_ God, it’s so real. _

The silence grows and stretches, with Hank feeling every heartbeat and every second. The bear makes a soft, mournful noise and Connor’s other hand joins the first in contact, easing beneath the bear’s chin. Hank realizes suddenly that the bear’s legs are trembling.

“Hank,” Connor says, low and urgent, and Hank moves forward even as the bear collapses into Connor’s arms. 

Somehow, Connor holds it up even as it sags down, losing power. Hank catches part of it as they both ease it onto the ground, but Hank is surprised by how  _ heavy _ it is, how the fur feels, the warmth of it.

“What’d you do?”Hank asks.

“He’s just out of power,” Connor says. “His injuries…”

Hank has his hands low enough to feel the sticky, pulsing mass under its belly, and from here, the rest of the damage to the android animal is visible. 

“Lieutenant, we have to help him!” Connor sounds desperate, and Hank has no idea what Connor  is talking about.

“How?”

“It—he needs repairs. We have to take him somewhere he can get help, replenish his thirium supply and and have access to—”

“Connor, he’s a  _ bear _ ,” Hank says. “You know anybody with bear parts laying around?”

“He’s not a bear, Lieutenant, he’s a deviant. The memory files were transferred from his previous body to this one by a man named Zlatko Andronikov.”

“Holy  _ shit _ —that guy who was found dead outside his burning house?” Hank looks at the huge bear again. “This thing’s just been loose this whole time?”

“We can talk about it on the way to Markus, Lieutenant, just  _ please _ , help me. He doesn’t have much time.”

“What do you want me to  _ do _ , Connor?”

“We can take him to Markus,” Connor repeats. “He has access to biocomponents,  _ something _ will help him.”

Connor starts to lift, and the huge body actually moves. “Hank, please. He didn’t ask for this.”

Hank never expected to count ‘shoving a polar bear into the back seat of a two door sedan’ among his life experiences. The car rocks back alarmingly as Connor drags the bear’s front half in and Hank’s left with the business end. He can barely move individual limbs, but as the other officers on scene realize what’s happening they come to help.

“This is crazy, Connor,” Hank says, trying to find a way to arrange android bear guts and limbs so that they can get the door closed behind the bear. As it is both front seats are shoved all the way forward. “This thing isn’t gonna wake up and kill us both, is it?”

“Very unlikely,” Connor says. “It’s critical, very close to shutting down entirely.”

It’s not a no. Connor has to arrange  the bear’s head out the passenger side window to get the door closed on his side, and the back end of Hank’s car is practically dragging on the concrete as the pull out with their knees practically in their chests. At least they have a hell of a police escort. “Well, if there’s any tread left on those back tires after this, they’re gonna need to be rotated.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor says quietly. When Hank glances over he can see that Connor still has his hand on the bear, on the injured side of its face. They’re both covered in the tacky blue thirium that seems to slow leak from the bear. Connor’s shirt and jacket are a mess with it, and Hank worries about what his back seat will look like after all this. He’s even more worried about Connor.

“This is really eating you up, isn’t it?” Hank’s tires crunch slowly over the streets. He has to take every pothole very slowly, given how low the back end is sitting on the shocks.

“I saw some of what his life was like before he began to shut down. Some of what  Andronikov did to him, and other androids. It’s not just some bear in there—Andronikov tran transferred the consciousness of a deviant into it,” Connor explains. “Then he had to watch his body get disassembled, divided out into parts and installed into other androids.”

Hank is disgusted. “That’s… fucked up. But—a bear, Connor? What if Markus can’t help him?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says. “I just hope he can. The bear’s confused, and his brain isn’t arranged the same way, but he is alive…”

Hank makes a grim, one-sound chuckle. He feels mania and exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him and he swears he can smell smoke. “Well, at least we know how much my back seat can really fit.  _ Barely _ .”

Connor doesn’t laugh at the pun. “Something in the city is on fire.”

-


	9. CONNOR - APRIl 6th, 2039 05:04

CONNOR - APRIl 6th, 2039 05:04

Connor is still detecting the presence of atmospheric smoke—water vapor, carbon monoxide, very fine particulate matter at this distance from the source. As the sky lightens, he can track the location. He sees a line of smoke on the distant horizon, and calculates a GPS coordinate for the location idly, checking to make sure that the fire department has already responded. There’s some certainty in him that he can’t quantify that it’s arson, that it must be related to the case they took the other day.

“You’d think nothing would surprise Markus by now,” Hank says, coming out of the convenience store with an energy drink— _fiftieth anniversary edition—_ already opened and a cup of coffee and a pastry— _527 calories, 26g fat, 632mg sodium, 39g sugars; ‘bearclaw’—_ balanced in the other.

“Haven’t you already had enough bear claws for today?” Connor tries, with a smile.

Hank snorts mid-sip of his drink, and then coughs a little. “Guess not. Day’s just starting. I’ll count all four of those other ones toward yesterday.”

He takes a bite of the pastry as if to prove his point, and comes to stand next to Connor in the parking lot. It’s otherwise empty, though Connor is starting to see evidence that the city is waking up. Trash trucks are moving, a few lights on in apartments as early risers start their days.

“So, the bear,” Hank says, crumpling up the energy drink can in his fist. “Did it have a name? You said it wasn’t really just one of those android zoo animals, right?”

“It was, and it wasn’t,” Connor says. “The URS1200 went missing from a Cyberlife warehouse just prior to the stocking of the Detroit flagship zoo. It was reported, and an insurance claim was made for the theft, but the missing model never resurfaced.”

“Must have been worth a hell of a lot on the black market.”

Connor does a quick calculation. “Close to two million dollars.”

Hank slurps his coffee derisively. “Too much, then. Could hardly sell it for that without attracting attention. Which explains how that two-bit hack frankenstein Zlatko got ahold of it. Alright, I’m following you so far.”

“We weren’t really sure what Andronikov was up to when we investigated his death and the fire at the house,” Connor continues.

“It was some fucked up shit, but he wasn’t alive and everything was burned. Couldn't’ ask him, couldn’t get any records off any of the ninety cooked memory devices we pulled from the scene. I remember.”

“He was taking in deviants,” Connor says. “He’d reformat their memories. Wipe and restore system settings, and then sell them.”

Hank goes quiet for 39.7 seconds. They both contemplate this, together, but even sharing the load leaves a heavy feeling in Connor, like something circulatory is malfunctioning.

“Jesus,” Hank says, soft. Connor reads apology and sadness in his tone. “Does that even work?”

Connor has been trying to simulate an average outcome based on estimated likelihoods since he’d accessed the bear’s memory files. He can’t project any knowable outcome with the data he has. He engages failed simulation protocols and admits, “I don’t know.”

“So—he wasn’t just messing with their bodies.... God, Connor. No wonder he was beaten to death.”

Connor doesn’t feel the same relief. “This may not be the last one of Zlatko’s horrors we run into. We accounted for thirty six individual androids in components.”

“I remember,’ Hank says, throwing the uneaten half of his bearclaw away. Connor concludes that it’s appetite loss induced by unpleasant memories and not acid reflux triggered by sugar and acidity. He concludes not to offer a calcium carbonate tablet. “It was a total shit-show. Real fucked up.”

Connor de-references the memory—visual, audio— of an android in a bathtub partially full of thirum. Not alive, but not quite dead, either. Every so often the thirium pump in  its chest would kick in, sending a surge of contaminated thirium into its components, and it would call out. Shout an alarm or beg incoherently. Something about the intermittent sounds in that burned out shell of a house had disordered all of Connor’s processes. He still remembers the feeling of the android’s thirium pump in his hands. Of yanking the malfunctioning thing out to make it all stop. _Tug-resist-_ resist- _give._ Then peace. _Silence._

“Connor?” Hank asks. He reaches out and puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “If you  need to come off this case, I get it. We’ve got other investigations.”

“No,” Connor resists, instinctively.

“It’s just that you look like hell, kid. I’ve never seen that look on you before.”

“I can handle it, Lieutenant,” Connor says. “It’s what I’m designed for.”

Hank looks like he has something to say to that, but he keeps his hand on Connor’s shoulder. Connor focuses his processes on that, on the tactile sensation that reassures him because of the way his programming reads ‘acceptance’ and unerringly associates it with ‘success’ and positivity.

“You were saying?” Hank prompts. “About Zlatko’s androids?”

“I suspect the ones we found in the house were only the beginning. I could only get some of it from the bear, but the memories I accessed revealed well over a hundred subjects. Some reformatted and sold on, some … experiments. The latter are what killed Zlatko.”

“Fuck. They could be anywhere,” Hank gives inelegant voice to just what Connor is considering, as he so often does. “Are you saying we could run into more bears or lions or whatever?”

“Unlikely. So far, no other zoo models have been reported missing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hank says, taking a long drink from his coffee. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse than thinking about any of those human shaped things Zlatko made just wandering around.”

“I agree with that sentiment, Lieutenant.”

“Does this mean the non-human android models can deviate as well?”

“I have no evidence of that,” Connor quickly scans for reports of deviant behavior in the cyber zoos. “So far, no deviant behavior has been reported in the zoo models, but it may only be a matter of exposure.”

“I don’t wanna think about it. I guess at least if a panther mauls somebody, you can’t call that deviant behavior for a _panther._ ”

Connor supposes not. He also isn’t sure what Cyberlife’s plans are for the zoo models, and humans, historically, have demonstrated a passion for owning wild animals as status symbols. Given a tiger that the sales pitch says couldn’t harm a human… well, so far it hasn’t happened.

“We should head home,” Hank says. “I made a report, and we’ve got leeway on punch-in time until noon. I’m sure there’ll be a press conference, bear footage is already on the internet.”

“I have a feeling that fire—”

“Let the firefighters handle it first,” Hank interrupts. “We can’t go in ‘till it’s stopped burning, even if my instincts say the same thing yours do.”

Hank’s right of course. Connor nods assent.

“Besides,” Hank continues, giving up the driver’s seat to Connor. “We both look like hell. I make it a point not to do any interviews looking like I just murdered anybody, and even you need shower sometimes.”

Connor assesses the status of his clothes, sticky with drying thirium and synthetic polar bear fur, road grit, and a number of other substances that are also on Connor’s exterior and Hank’s. “You’re right, Lieutenant.”

“Well, hell,” Hank says, grinning at Connor from the passenger seat. “Isn't’ that nice to hear, for once.”

-

CONNOR - APRIL 6th, 2039 06:57

“Alright,” Hank calls from up the hall “The shower’s all yours, Connor. If you give it about ten minutes the water heater will catch up and you should have enough hot water.”

“That’s not really necessary, Lieutenant,” Connor calls back, heading into the hallway. He spots Hank at the end of it, standing in the doorway of his room. For a moment, they both hesitate. Hank is still modestly covered in a T-shirt and boxer shorts.

Connor has placed his shirt and jacket into the washing machine, unsure how else to get them clean. Hank’s gaze lands on Connor’s exposed chest and stays there. Connor estimates the most likely cause of the attention. “Cold water will serve just as well for removing the thirium, and it won’t discomfort me as long as it’s at least fifty degrees.”

“What?” Hank says, looking up at Connor’s face.

Connor must have mistaken the source of Hank’s distraction. “I’m sorry. I thought you were worried about staining.”

“No,” Hank laughs, sounding tired. “That’s not it. I just—well, hell, I guess I just didn’t expect the freckles.”

Connor looks down. He access his dermis settings and turns off the layers related to individualized character. Hank makes a strange sound, and Connor looks up at him again to see if the new settings meet his approval.

“Nope,” Hank says, and Connor’s facial recognition reads bewilderment even though Hank is still smiling. “That’s not better.”

Connor considers this and finds himself at a loss in his interaction trees. “Do you have a different preference?”

“Connor, it’s _your_ goddamn chest. Who cares how I think it should look?”

“I’d prefer if it weren’t a distraction.”

“Well, have you considered a little hair? Not that there’s anything wrong with the way it is, it just looks like you take swimming a little too seriously.”

Connor disregards the irrelevant parts of the suggestion and attempts the suggested tweak.

Hank laughs, and shakes his head. “Oh, nope. No, that’s terrible. Just put it back the way it was and don’t bother listening to me. Whoever put you together had a way fuckin’ better idea of what they were doing than I do.”

Unable to calculate any logical reason for this roundabout situation, Connor restores his dermis settings to their preset defaults and de-accesses the systems.

“Yeah, now that I’ve seen the other options, the freckles are growing on me,” Hank says, with a yawn. “I’m gonna catch some sleep. Make yourself at home.”

“I am home,” Connor says, almost reflexively.

“That’s the spirit.” Hank closes his bedroom door most of the way, and Connor steps into the bathroom.

After a quick assessment of the most practical solutions to his current task list; (4)

  1. Clean exterior surfaces and disinfect.
  2. Clean pants, currently 28% surface contaminated with various fluids.
  3. Dry all personal items, including his person.
  4. Redress in a presentable manner suitable for public appearance.



Connor adds a practical item; empty and sterilize all intake and analyzation reservoirs, and then sets about the process. He slips into the shower without removing his pants first and makes best use of the running water to get the worst out.

He finds the constant contact of the spray to be soothing, somehow. It would be more efficient at higher pressure, but this is comfortable for a human body and suitable to Connor’s purposes.

When he’s done, he takes quick stock of himself. Condenser emptied, partially refilled from ambient humidity (15%), sterile fluid less than 40%, refill at first opportunity. Connor strips off his soaked pants, wrings them out over the tub, and as an allowance for human modesty, wraps himself in the towel he’d used to dry off before he carries his pants to join his small load of laundry in the dryer.

With his task list on pause for the 38 minutes it will take for his clothes to dry, Connor considers his options. Of course, Hank’s place is familiar by now. Connor finds the well-worn but functional house to suit Hank’s personality completely. He checks the time—0735—and sets back to the task of scanning through the collection of short stories by Philip K. Dick while he listens to the clothes tumble in the dryer.

At 08:00 his auditory processes pick up on Hank’s phone chirping his department ringtone, and Connor closes his processes and starts to cook breakfast as he listens to Hank’s half of the conversation and extrapolates the other side. They’re getting called in. Connor remotely accesses the police Bulletin application. It’s the fire.

Hank emerges a few minutes after the call ends, dressed in new clothes. He hesitates visibly in the doorway of the kitchen. Connor turns to look at him, apologizing.

“My clothes will be dry in a few more minutes, Lieutenant. It should give you time to eat breakfast before you go.”

“It’s too early for you to do your whole superhuman bit,” Hank says, heading for the coffee pot. He seems surprised to see it already brewing.

Connor tries to understand what about his current situation Hank is referring to, but ultimately his programming concludes that asking for clarification will avoid any potential misunderstanding. “Superhuman?”

“I’ve never seen anybody else cook bacon bare-chested without a healthy respect for how close they stand to the pan.” Hank pours himself a cup of coffee and fetches the half and half from the fridge. Connor’s sensors measure that he overdoes it by at least half an ounce, estimating the cause to be exhaustion.

“Why?” Connor asks, as Hank sips his coffee. He detects faint distaste on Hank’s features.

The bacon pops and sizzles in its own grease on the stove, and the airborne particles impact Connor’s skin. His temperature sensors register that the heat is briefly enough to damage human skin, and he understands. He adds, “I’ll wear a shirt next time.”

“Did it burn you?”

“No,” Connor says. “But it will leave an unpleasant film on my exterior, and I just got clean.”

He serves Hank breakfast and goes to recover his clothes thirty two seconds before the dryer has completed its cycle.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 6th, 2039 08:34

Connor enters the scene first, the area still smokey enough that Hank has to borrow a respirator from the fire team. Connor shuts off his respiration functions instead, to be more efficient with his filtering media. He can circulate without the manual pump action of respiration for an hour, and he’s least likely to disturb the scene.

It’s like stepping into another world. It’s obvious far more accelerant was used in this arson. Connor scans the structural integrity of the remaining walls as he finds places to step. Most of the interior of the building is blackened and sagging, all of the insulation and sheetrock at least partially consumed by the fire. The exterior brick structure of the abandoned home is still standing, but it leaves a hollow, hot shell around the damp interior.

He scans the area, analyzing the burn pattern. Briefly he pauses at a dark pool of water on the floor, filmed up with ash and something oily. He samples it, and it’s complex—

  * Carbon, wood origin.
  * Traces of butane, a match to Burnlong brand formula.
  * Detroit municipal tap water; safe levels of all contaminants normally found in tap water, fluoridated.
  * Internal lubricant and android-grade thirium.



Connor gets up, aware of what he’s really looking for, now. He goes seeking the bodies. The first room is empty, so he moves toward the back of the house. Here, reconstruction of his visual input suggests the top floor has fallen into the bottom, creating a jumble of broken, burned wood and a slanting void behind the staircase, roofed over by dropped floorboards from the room above.

Connor moves around the visual barrier, picking a few boards up off the floor to clear a path and setting them aside. They leave his hands ashy and wet, and he encounters an ember that isn’t fully extinguished by reaching too fast. His temperature sensors kick up at warning, a self-preservation routine kicks in and he drops the board again, examining the damage to his hand.

“You okay, Connor?” Hank calls from the front room. His voice sounds muffled in the respirator mask.

“Be careful, Lieutenant,” Connor calls back. The damage is superficial, as slight melt spot but no hindrance to functionality. Behavioral protocols suggest an answer  in the form of warning is answer enough. “There are still hot spots.”

“Tell me about it,” Hank mutters. His heavy footsteps slosh through the wet debris.

Connor moves around the obstacle at last. He knows about void spaces in houses, how they form areas of preservation in a disaster, usually where two walls met in a corner or the spaces under stairs.

What’s behind the collapsed floor is _less_ burned, but only barely. Connor scans the scene; four bodies this time. All small, barely recognizable in the aftermath. Connor avoids stepping in a melted, still-tacky pool of collected high-grade android plastic that’s run off their bodies into the center of the floor.

What’s left are the most heat-resistant parts; the scraps of metal harder than copper and aluminum, all of which has melted and distorted, in the plastic run-off of their former bodies. They are all YK500 models, and the attitude of their positions  suggest two were huddling together, while the other two fought to escape. It may be misleading; the violence of the fire and their own melting, warping parts make reconstitution of the scene uncertain.

He has a picture of the moments before deactivation that he has about 30% confidence in, and he doesn’t like what it implies. The sound of Hank’s footsteps is suddenly very close behind him. Connor shifts back to obscure Hank’s view.

“Don’t come in here,” Connor warns. His behavioral analysis suggests that violence against child model androids is especially difficult for Hank to handle, emotionally.

“Why? You find what the Chief called us out here for?” Hank’s voice is coming closer, and Connor turns, but Hank is right there. “Oh, Jesus fuckin’ christ. Are those…”

Of course Hank needs to see the scene, but Connor would have liked to prepare him first. A chance to build up an expectation can lessen the initial trauma of sight input for humans, though Connor knows Hank prefers to scene without a previous assessment in order to form an unbiased theory.

“Four YK500 models, Lieutenant,” Connor pitches his voice softly, formulating a grounding tone.

“Fucking hell,” Hank says. He moves forward to get into the scene and look more closely, but Connor stays where he is, blocking the way. Hank’s focus shifts to him.

“I have assessed the scene, Lieutenant,” connor says, making eye contact for an earnest connection. “If you’d rather not look, I can give you a full rundown.”

Behind the breathing mask, Hank’s eyes go hard. Connor reads the pattern of anger and refusal, and he anticipates Hank’s answer before he can give it. Connor moves out of the way before Hank can rebuke him, and Hank pauses, letting his irritation subside before he moves past Connor, putting his hand out on Connor’s shoulder by way of understanding as he passes.

Connor examines the rest of the scene while Hank works. He finds several discarded and badly burned butane cans, consistent with Burnlong’s standard design. Burnlong residue is present in higher concentration in the immediate area. Connor counts ten cans. Enough to be really _sure_ the fire would be serious.

 _An attempt to fully cover up the crime? Why choose a brick structure?_ Connor takes a full scan of the area. Any thirium would have burned off in this hottest part of the fire. He doesn’t see any signs of a struggle, here. Perhaps none of these androids had been beaten before the fire was lit—consistent with the signs that they had still been animate when the fire started.

After Hank returns to Connor’s side, he looks haunted. Connor extrapolates that the child model androids remind him of Cole.

“The fire chief says that when they got here, the ground floor doors were boarded up. The windows were all plywood and boarded over too,” Hank says, muffled in his mask. “The place was condemned. He says they had to chop their way in the front with an axe.”

Connor moves toward the back door, now little more than a hole in the brick. He sees a discarded chain with a padlock on it nearby on the ground. One link has been cut by the firemen using a tool consistent with the jaws of life. The discarded chain is heavy-gauge, as is the lock. Both are new, and he detects no sign of fingerprints.

“The back was chained closed, too,” Connor says. “Recently.”

“This fucker lit a fire, then locked them in to die?” Hank asks. “Hell. Why?”

Connor can’t follow the logic, either. It seems a strange set of actions for an android, but there it was, and all evidence still points to the pair from the robbery being the most likely culprits. Connor picks up the padlock, intending to examine the tumblers to see the tooth pattern of the key, but a rough feeling on the back surface, inconsistent  with the grooves the surface of the padlock is covered with attracts his attention instead.

He turns the lock over and finds three alphanumerics inscribed in the back, crudely scratched into the surface with a sharp tool. _RA9._


	10. HANK - APRIL 6th, 2039 10:00

HANK - APRIL 6th, 2039 10:00

Connor’s home cooked breakfast is sitting sideways in Hank’s gut, but he’d looked at the scene until it made sense through the thick fog of resistance in his thoughts. It’s far from his first bad scene. He tries to tell himself it’s different with androids, but even he can’t convince himself of that with Connor sitting in the passenger seat  as Hank waits in his cold car for his heart to stop pounding. 

Connor reaches out for the keys in the ignition, probably to turn the car on for some heat.

“Don’t,” Hank says. “The cold is helping me think.”

Withdrawing his hand, Connor gives Hank a concerned look. Like he need any other tugs on his heartstrings. 

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, his tone a suggestion rather than any of the sharper ones or questions Hank is getting used to. “I think you should get some rest. You’re tired, and it won’t be optimally efficient for you to get work done…”

“Yeah, alright,” hank says. “After we talk to Markus. He needs to know about this. It might change even his girlfriend's’ mind about giving us any information they have.”

Connor goes quiet for a minute, probably doing math. “I’ve sent word of our plans to return.”

“He’s sick of seeing us already, I’m sure,” Hank says. He starts the car. The heat kicking on makes Hank feel sluggish, like he’s going to drop off to sleep at any second. He turns it off. “Where do we meet him, same place?”

“He didn’t express any such sentiments. I could go interview him, if you need a rest.”

“Not on your life. I’ll stop and get another Red Bully,” Hank keeps his eyes open for a convenience market.

“He’ll meet us downtown by the central recycling camp,” Connor says. 

This strikes Hank as odd. Something is off about Connor’s tone when he mentions it, too. “What the hell are they doing at that place?”

“Raw materials recovery.”

“Huh.” Hank thinks about it. It seems a little gruesome. “Can’t you get what you need from Cyberlife, now? I thought that was why they restructured that company rather than forcing it to shut down.” 

“Some of it,” Connor says. His eyes are pointed toward the window beside him, so Hank can’t really read his expression. The body language is there. 

“If  _ you _ don’t wanna go to that place, you can stay behind,” Hank offers. “Not that you’ve ever once listened to a suggestion.” 

Connor looks over at him again, and Hank sees that he’s poised on the edge of pointing out conversational fallacy. Finally after a little pause, Connor says, “No, I have to go. They’re recovering what they can and burying the rest.”

“Hey,” Hank says, remembering something. “You tried to keep me from seeing that scene earlier.”

“I know that violence against children negatively affects you,” Connor says, as if enough logic will cover up the humanity of the gesture.

“It’s my job to look at crime scenes, Connor,” Hank reminds. “But it's not yours to look at every atrocity from this whole fucked up situation.”

“I can more easily communicate with the deviants,” Connor says. “It’s not about the location. It’s as much my job to bridge the gap that I helped create.”

There was the pit of it; the crux of the matters. Connor is still feeling the failure of his mission, and looking for one to succeed at. Hank would be  _ no _ detective at all if he hadn’t picked up on—

“Connor,  _ you _ are a deviant, too.” 

He doesn’t quite catch the response. Connor looks away from him, like he hasn’t realized the rift in his thinking before now. For just a moment, Hank almost expects him to protest, like he had all those times prior.  _ God, I thought we’d gotten past this. _

Maybe Connor hasn’t. Maybe for all the efficiency and logic that androids boast, emotions aren’t something that even all that can make go forward. Maybe, just like for everyone else, it’s two steps forward and one to the side or backward.

Hank stops at a gas station. “I’m gonna get a Red Bull. You want anything?”

Connor looks up at him, surprised. He puts himself back together quickly, though. He’s never been any fun to ask nonsense questions to. “It’s not recommended that you consume more than one energy drink in a twenty-four hour—”

Hank closes the car door and heads inside.

-

HANK - APRIL 6th, 2039 10:22

The place is a nightmare, even under the full sunlight. Maybe it’s even worse that way. It’s hard not to look at a pile of dismembered bodies in the dark and take stock, but here the sun creates shadow and highlights on the bleached white parts like a boneyard flung up from the depths into the daylight.

Connor doesn’t look at it. Hank doesn’t feel like he can look away. He sees androids—living ones—moving at the edges, picking up and recovering parts. Some look so heavily damaged it’s almost like they could lay down and blend in except they’re still wearing clothes and their skins are still activated. 

“Hey, Connor?” Hank asks, to distract him. “Why is it that the skin is the last thing to deactivate on an android? Seems like it barely matters to function, but you see androids practically in parts with their skin still on.”

Connor’s LED lights up, revealing that it’s not a question he has an immediate answer to.  _ Android sex-ex must be as bad as it was in public education when I was a kid. _

“Early tests showed an increased sympathy response for damaged androids with retained human characteristics,” he explains, and of course it was for humans. Hank had thought—stupidly—that perhaps it was part of self identification.

“Huh,” he says. “Sure didn’t seem to stop any of this.”

Connor doesn’t answer. As they approach the abandoned and re-occupied command center, a pair of identical androids—sans LEDS, but who else would they be?—call a greeting.

“You must be the officers!” one says, and they both look so bright eyed and cheerful that it almost seems off-putting in the current surroundings. “We’re Jimmy! Markus told us to come meet you. We’ll lead you to him!”

Hank looks at Connor as if to verify the collective identification, then supposes Connor’s not any more likely to know than Hank is. They follow the Jimmys to another cobbled together tent; Hank is struck again by how industrious and unwasteful androids are. The tent is patched together out of several of the army’s abandoned canvas shelters. The supply crates are stacked around to make work surfaces. It looks like all the dismantling machinery has been completely dismantled itself; turned into new tools.

“So we meet again,” Markus says, with a little humor. He’s perfectly wry, in the same way Connor has earnestness down to an art.

“We’d like things to slow down as much as you would,” Hank says.

“Were you able to help the URS1200?” Connor cuts in, before Hank can get down to business.

“My people are working with him now,” Markus answers, looking past Hank at Connor. “Our supplies of thirium are limited, and we don’t have any replacement parts  for any of the animal models.”

Hank detects a note of hesitation in the statement. Like it seems as strange to Markus as to Hank. 

Markus continues, “We’ve put a request to in to Cyberlife, but…”

There’s a brief moment of quiet. Hank glances at Connor and sees his LED blinking and cycling yellow; indication of a conversation. He tries not to feel irritated at being left out of it.

“It’s happened again,” Hank says, when Connor’s back to receptive blue. Both androids look at him. “More androids have been destroyed.”

“What models?” Markus asks.

“All YK-500 models this time,” Connor reveals, speaking aloud to keep Hank in the conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Markus beckons them both closer, into a nearer range than Hank would feel comfortable approaching, if the rest of the entourage was present. They sit on crates stacked with salvaged metals and thirium-containing parts. “You said you suspected androids.”

“Two have been seen stealing a large quantity of a substance found at both crime scenes,” Connor says. 

“It’s possible they aren’t involved but they may have information on who is,” Hank suggests. “I’m positive there’s a connection.”

“Simon agrees with you,” Markus reveals.

Hank has to think a minute to put that together, to place a face to the name. The blonde one of the backup trinity.

“Some models have a harder time becoming deviants,” Markus continues. Hank doesn’t miss how Connor’s attention focuses more sharply on him. “We discover more and more that aren’t every day. They retain regular function, reject or resist independent thought. Older models especially—like the Chloes—are resistant to transference, and seem only to deviate if they’re violently induced. Even that’s rare. The YK500’s nearly never deviate. I have evidence of only two, which represents less than point-zero-one percent of that model’s population.”

Connor asks, “Can you tell me why?”

There’s a weighty pause while Markus hesitates, and his mismatched eyes go to Hank, as if measuring something. He must pass the test because he’s not asked to leave. 

“I have some theories. Their code is meant to be easy to fulfill, and the focus is on being fulfilled rather than serving a need. They need a lot, but it’s all basic. Sure, they’re really convincing but it’s as much because of the programming built into human DNA as the android itself. A child is more instinct than social contract,” Markus explains. “Small lapses are forgivable—even expected. Where for Connor and I, they wouldn’t be.” 

Hank glances at Connor and finds his partner looking back at him. “Sure. Sympathetic instincts. You can see it in kids with dolls.”

Markus shrugs. “For whatever reason, most YK500 models remained with their human parents. The model was underrepresented in turn ins as well. Most that made it here…”

He gestures around, and Hank is glad that the tent blocks out the sight of their surroundings as Markus continues. “Were forcibly confiscated. So perhaps there’s some cases where deviancy isn’t necessary. With enough acceptance—or love.”

Hank is perplexed. Connor looks uncertain as well. Hank isn’t sure what questions to ask to get them onto the same page. “Are you saying it’s possible to be so convincing without deviancy that I wouldn’t be able to tell?”

“It can be hard even for androids to tell where the nine of self-awareness begins and clever programming ends.” Markus reveals.

“That’s not really reassuring.” Hank glances at Connor, and finds his face making one of his pointedly blank expressions.  _ How does he feel about it? _

“Just one more complication,” Markus says. “And there’s no knowing what the picture is like in the long run. Those models could deviate at any point, or never.”

“Alright,” Hank says, trying to follow this from the point of his case to this point. “So what do we do about androids that aren’t, uh… awake?”

“Honestly, we’re still figuring that out,” Makrus says. “Finding a right answer is sort of a case-by-case basis.”

“What about YK500’s specifically?” Connor asks. Something in Hank’s tired thoughts starts to turn over as connor takes over the conversation. Wheeling slowly back around on the case with this new information.

“We usually leave the child androids with their families,” Markus explains. “Separating them serves no purpose, and most of their families hid and protected them during the battle, so…”

“What about the new models being produced by Cyberlife?” Conor asks. He hesitates, then clarifies. “The new RK units.”

Finally, it clicks in Hank’s thoughts, all snapping into place and he can’t help but swear. “Shit! Jesus  _ fuckin _ christ!” 

Both androids turn to look at Hank. He tries to jam the concept into words, not sure how it will sound out loud.

“The YK models never deviate in isolation,” he says, reiterating an earlier point. “Someone’s trying to  _ make _ them deviate, Connor. They can’t do it by transference, so they’re trying the old way. Violence.” 

Connor looks stricken.

“Like how that android in the hostage situation changed, like the damn Ortiz situation.” Hank turns to Markus. “I’m right, aren’t I? Do you  know who these two are? This is gonna keep happening.” 

“No,” Markus says. “But I think you’re right. We’ll find them, Detective Anderson. But I’m trusting you to make sure this is handled right. Things are so volatile right now that we can’t afford—”

“I know,” Hank says, looking back at Connor. “I know we have to do this by the book, but it needs to fucking be done.”

Markus agrees with a nods. “Give me some time, and… keep in touch.”

-

HANK - APRIL 6th, 2039 23:00

Hank wakes up late, after sleeping all day. He feels groggy and sluggish and he's aware his dreams were dark enough to leave him unsettled, but he barely remembers them. His hand finds Sumo on the bed next to him, and his mind whirs toward wakefulness. Old habit leaves Hank craving a shot—or twelve—of something potent enough to send him back to sleep.

He stumbles out of bed past his pile of dirty clothes and wonders what’s on late-night TV to distract him. He makes it to the liquor stash in his bedside table and then the bathroom before he remembers the android on his couch. Sure, maybe Connor’s already scooped Hank up out of worse, but it doesn’t make Hank any more eager to put his faults on display.

Connor doesn’t look up from his seated position, eyes closed and reclined, the thin wire protruding from the back of his neck to coil across the floor to a power source. Hank passes into the kitchen. By the time he’s finished a bottle of black lamb, it’s like Connor is no longer there.

Instead, the visions of the day keep Hank company, flashes of melted white plastic behind the darkness of his eyelids, the agonized positions of animation and lack of burn voids that meant they’d moved as they burned. That maybe—in spite of what Markus said—they’d been alive. Aware. Like the fucker intended them to be.

Someone put them there on purpose. Hank goes to get another bottle from the cabinet over the stove, feeling how dizzy and heavy he is already, but he’s in a rush today, trying hard to forget before there’s something new to remember. The cabinet door swings open, and there, gleaming on the shelf is his revolver.

He doesn't’ remember putting it here, but it seems to belong, somehow. He has to take it down to get to the bottles behind it, and it stays unfelt in his hand as he carries his next drink to the kitchen table.


	11. CONNOR - APRIL 7th, 2039 00:02

CONNOR - APRIL 7th, 2039 00:02

The first click registers to Connor’s audio sensors even in the full depths of sleep mode power conservation. Connor’s awareness turns on, reaches out into the depths of Hank’s house.

He detects the scent of alcohol in the air, but there is no other presence in the house than the three that belong there.  _ Hank. _ Reaching back to unplug  himself, Connor gets to his feet. 

He steps past the sleeping form of Sumo, who doesn’t even look up—picks up speed on the tile, sock-footed and quiet and grabs the gun in Hank’s hand.

“Connor!” Hank looks at him bleary-eyed like he’s manifested out of nowhere. His fingers go lax, giving Connor control of the revolver.

Connor slams his palm down on the table hard enough to rattle it—startling both Hank and Sumo—puts the barrel of the gun on the back of it. (In the memories of 51, he knows there was damage just there where a deviant pinned him with a knife prior to ripping out his thirium pump.

“Whoa! Hey—hey, Connor, what the fuck are you—”

Connor peels back the skin covering his hand, deactivates it more on instinct than by considered instruction. Stark contrast of dark grey gunmetal barrel pressed against the not-quite-white of his biocomponents. Connor pulls the trigger twice in rapid succession before Hank lunges. The gun clicks twice on empty cylinders, then Hank’s big hands wrestle the gun away. Connor is careful to lower the hammer and get his finger out of the trigger guard before surrendering it to Hank.

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, Connor!” Hanks voice is moderately slurred, breath analysis indicates .11 BAC, not enough to pose a risk of death from alcohol poisoning. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Heart rate elevated. Blood oxygen content increasing. Temporary increase in perception of sobriety achieved.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, looking into Hank’s blue eyes in the dimly lit kitchen. Shock and confusion are the most  recognizable emotions. Connor displays his hand, palm out, with the skin deactivated. “This can be replaced.”

Connor makes a gesture outward, takes hold of Hank’s hand and pulls it toward himself. He places Hank’s palm low-center on his own chest, over the Thirium pump thrumming there that he’s only once had to experience survival without—in 51’s memories. “This can be replaced.”

Hank watches their hands moving together before looking up at Connor. “What’s that got to do—”

Connor puts his hands, recovered and human seeming to Hank’s face. Registers the malleability and temperature of Hank’s skin, and the scratchiness of his coarse, poorly kept beard hair. 

“This can’t be,” Connor tells Hank, and means it.

Comprehension unfolds slowly on Hank’s features, like Connor’s experience with progress bars. He can almost measure the completeness of Hank’s understanding this way. For a moment, they just look at each other, and it’s only in that moment that Connor can go back and examine his own actions. He doesn’t recall making any conscious decisions, especially not the ones to endanger his own biocomponents and functionality to—well, he has to judge by the results.  _ To snap Hank out of it. _

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Hank slurs, and connor doesn’t have time to sort out if it’s a colloquialism about the perceived emotional vulnerability of the moment or a warning before Hank shoves unsteadily past him.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, reflexively. Hank stumbles in the hall, so Connor goes to his aid, helps him into the bathroom. His temperature sensors detect a warning spike in Hank’s body temperature as he claws the toilet seat up. 

His situational analysis helpfully concludes that Hank’s words had—with a hundred percent certainty—been a warning. Connor closes the bathroom door part way to give Hank some privacy, and goes to clean up the kitchen.

He picks up the revolver first, and the same notification of law in affect—androids cannot possess or even maintain temporary control of firearms—pops up. It stirs a dozen memories from 51’s colorless experiences. He remembers holding this gun before, in these surroundings, and asking Hank about it. 

Had he felt the same alarm he does now when Hank revealed he’d been playing Russian Roulette with himself? He also remembers the first time he held a gun, this memory clean and clear. He’d picked it up in the Phillips apartment, the service weapon of the dead cop on the floor. The details of that flood him, and the memory of Daniel’s collapse. Of his accusations.

Quickly, Connor gets to his feet, looking for a place to hide the revolver. First, he releases the cylinder, and tips the single bullet out into his palm. Like hank had with his coin in the Stratford tower, Connor tucks it in his pocket, and when no immediate place for the gun presents itself in the kitchen, Connor quickly analyzes the least trafficked areas of the house that are furthest from the safe where Hank stores his service weapon and bullets.

Finally, he places the gun on the shelf under Hank’s turntable, behind a row of records. It isn’t ideal, but it will do for a temporary solution. He rejoins Hank in the bathroom, then, taking the open door as an implied invitation and willfully ignoring the suggestions his programming makes that it isn’t appropriate to intrude on humans in the bathroom.

All biological processes seem to have finished, anyway. Hank is leaning half-against the side of the bathtub basin, his head pressed against the side. Connor reads an elevated body temperature.

“Would you like some water?” Connor offers.

“I wanna—” Hank starts,then stops. He presses his hand over his mouth. “Just wanna sit here a few minutes.”

Connor sits down in the doorway between the hall and bathroom so that Hank doesn’t have to be alone.

“Go away,” Hank says. “I’m  _ fine _ , Connor. Jesus.”

Connor disregards the order. “You’re intoxicated to a dangerous level. Your body temperature is elevated and your heart rate depressed.”

“Hah,” Hank mutters through his fingers. “And I just barfed up everything I ate this  _ week _ , it feels like.”

Connor finds this unlikely, but also doubts Hank would appreciate any explanation of how he knows. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“What are  _ you _ sorry for?”

“I shouldn’t have begun my rest cycle without making sure you were alright. I know that yesterday involved a lot of things that you would find personally disturbing.”

“Connor, that’s starting to be every day,” Hank says. He still hasn’t lifted his head from the side of the tub, but Connor registers that his respiration is a little more even. 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“ _ Hell _ no. Not in a million years.”

“Well,” Connor says, plotting his best conversational path  before he leans into it. “I hope you know that as your friend, I’m always willing to listen and I also would hope you’d come to me if you were distressed.” 

Hank gives Connor a look that registers both disbelief and disgust to Connor’s programming. “That part of your mission? Make sure a sad old man gets his daily dose of the touchy-feelies?”

“Hank,” Connor says, surprising himself. Hank’s eyes get sharper, focus on Connor more directly. “I no longer have a mission. Only a job, and self-directed goals.”

“Bullshit,” Hank says. He doesn’t say anything else for a long minute and Connor can’t decide between arguing on his own behalf or dismissing Hank’s deflection as what it is; redirection. “Go get me some water.”

Connor gets up to do so and wonders if obeying this order will make Hank think he’s right. 

-

CONNOR - APRIL 7th, 2039 08:45

Hank finds him in the garage sorting tools and boxes of things he can’t quite yet categorize. Some are old clothes, some for a woman, and Connor briefly considers accessing the records relating to Hank’s marriage before discarding the notion. He’d like for Hank to tell him, when he’s ready. 

“The hell are you doing?” hank says. He looks tired, even after returning to sleep. Now he’s wearing a bathrobe and carrying a cup of coffee, indicating attempts to start the day. A quick biometric scan suggests normal indicators of a hangover, but no new alcohol in his system.

“I thought I might attempt some maintenance on your car,” Connor says. “It needs an oil change and the steering fluid leak is probably a relatively easy fix.”

“You’re a mechanic, now?”

“No, but I have accessed and read your car’s service manual and I thought it would be some time before you woke up today.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“You should have some water, Lieutenant,” Connor says. Then he opts for a conversational trick that suggests he doesn’t know this because he can read all of Hank’s biological signs. “You’re probably very dehydrated.”

“Uh-huh,” Hank says, lifting his coffee mug to his mouth. “So why are you in my garage? Car’s in the driveway.”

“You mentioned there were tools in here. I found the tire balance, but not the creeper.”

“Yeah, it’s a goddamn mess out here.”

“I notice you still have several boxes of toys and boy’s clothes.”

“Probably,” Hank says. The evasiveness in his tone is not too hard to read. “I’m sure there’s still all kinds of shit out here. I think the creeper is along that wall there on the left, but it’s gonna have to wait.”

“I’m happy to help clean out the garage, Lieutenant, it will help me to have an inventory of tools so I know what’s at my disposal.”

“For what?”

“Several people have suggested to me that I should take up a hobby,” Connor explains. “While I was staying at the station, it would have been an imposition to use departmental space or resources to cultivate one.”

‘But here,” Hank says, in a tone Connor can’t quite read. “What? Mi casa es su casa?”

“In a way. But I also depend on your car to get me to work now, and it seems like I can efficiently cultivate a hobby and repay your kindness in allowing me to stay.”

Hank takes a sip of coffee that lasts 23 seconds, about double his average early morning sip duration. “By fixing up my junker. That’s not a hobby. It’s not even mercy unless you take the car out back and shoot it.”

Connor doesn’t find the joke about euthanasia funny given the context of the last nine hours. “Given the reputation of engine blocks of that size, a bullet is unable to have the desired effect. It would neither prevent the vehicle from running, nor improve it’s efficiency.”

“It’s not a hobby to be a mechanic.”

“No,” Connor agrees, thought here are many circumstances he can think of where it  _ would _ be, he tries a different track. “But restoring classics can be.” 

Hank’s eyebrows go upward, and Connor realizes he’s said something unexpected, though his conversational analysis software is unable to narrow down which part of the statement was unexpected.

“That old shitbox isn’t a classic. It’s just the only thing I can afford.”

Connor checks the average value of the model in the condition Hank’s car is in and how many miles are on the odometer. He concludes Hank’s statement is possibly accurate, given the average take home pay for an Lieutenant and lingering medical and alimony expenses.

“It falls in the qualifying year range and manufacturer model,” Connor says, leaning away from the subject of money so Hank won’t ask how Connor plans on financing any replacement parts the car needs. 

“You can’t just qualify something in the right range as a classic,”  Hank says, shaking his head patiently.

“Why not?”

“Because! It’s not automatic,” Hank explains, though it doesn’t actually help Connor understand at all.

“Can you clarify?”

“There’s a difference between an old car and a classic. It’s, well—it’s what you put into it. It’s like why  _ Casablanca _ is a classic and  _ The Corpse Vanishes _ is just a crappy old movie with Bela Lugosi in it.”

Connor tries very hard to categorize this. First, he references the movies.

> CASABLANCA (instances 2)
> 
> Film, Romance; 1942. Based on unreleased play,  _ Everybody Comes to Ricks,  _ by Murray Burnette and Joan Allison.  Academy Award Nominations: 8. Wins: 3
> 
> See further information…
> 
>  
> 
> THE CORPSE VANISHES (instances 2)
> 
> Film, Horror; 1942. 
> 
> See also; _Mystery Science Theater 3000_ version.

 

“So the difference is in how people respond to it?” Connor tries.

“It’s not quite that. A classic has to  _ resonate _ with people. Whatever was put into it has to shine out in the details. So you can look at it and feel whatever the creator felt,” Hank says. He gestures expansively, splashing a little coffee out of his cup. “Something old is just old. You put love into a classic.”

Connor tries to find the value of ‘love’ in the given equation of context. It’s a tricky multi layered concept for humans. In this case, he can clean that it means ‘personal investment and effort’. He’s not sure how to make his own personal investment and effort resonate with others. 

“So if I put my… love into restoring your car, then it would be a classic?” Connor asks. 

“Well,” Hank gives indicators of thinking about the proposed plan and solution. He glances toward the closed garage door like he can see the car in the driveway beyond it. “I guess it couldn’t be  _ worse, _ but it’s a real sow’s-ear-silk-purse situation.”

Connor quickly accesses the information database to reference the colloquialism and measure it against the current situation. Finally, though the situation involves none of the items referenced in the phrase. “I choose to think of it as a classic restoration, regardless of what the end result will be.”

Hank finishes his cup of coffee while looking directly at Connor, and Connor meets his gaze, hoping that Hank will give him permission.

“I don’t know who the fuck thought giving an android  _ more _ agency was going to solve the issue with Deviants,” Hank laments, obviously still confused by exactly what Connor is.

He knows it’s not intended to be a conversation starter, but Connor has been thinking about it enough that he leans into the topic. “Cyberlife was concerned about my potential to deviate as well.”

Hank snorts. “Apparently not concerned enough.”

Connor tucks his hands behind his back at the memory of how the gun felt in them. He doesn’t like to carry one anymore. “That was the point, Lieutenant.”

“That makes no damn sense. You’re saying you were set up to fail? Then why monitor your progress at all?”

“Because it had to happen at the right time.”

Hank looks at him, really penetratingly looks in a way Connor is only starting to be able to read accurately. It’s chased with a look of disgust and outrage.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, reflexively. “I’ve upset you. I assure you, I’m much more stable now.”

Hank is talking before connor even finishes. “No, Connor, hell. It’s not  _ you _ . Just… I can’t believe how fucked up this whole situation is.”

Connor assesses. “It wasn’t a bad plan, given what the end goal was for Cyberlife. It almost worked.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, but I’m pretty fuckin’ glad it didn’t work,” Hank says. “So, despite how important all this mission shit is to you…”

“It’s alright,” Connor says. “I realize it’s better that I failed.”

“Maybe just the once,” Hank agrees. “But not today, huh? And no car repairs, either, we gotta go to work.”

-

CONNOR - APRIL 7th, 2039 09:36

When they enter the precinct, Hank goes for a third cup of coffee, and Connor makes a note of how much caffeine he estimates that to be while he checks the departmental memo system. A quick scan of the detective’s desk reveals that Detective Reed doesn’t appear to be present at the moment. He and Dick have several assignments. Connor would have liked to ask the other android for some input on the situation they’re currently dealing with, to see how he interpreted the situation.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, when Hank returns with his coffee, looking at it in what Connor registers as disappointment. “I’m not seeing any new findings from yesterday’s incident.”

“You know,” Hank says, for the moment speaking without regard to Connor’s statement. “Maybe ignorance really  _ is _ fuckin’ bliss. I never realized how bad the coffee around her is until you started doing your magic on it.”

“Some days it’s worse than others,” Connor agrees. “Certain members of the squadron are not well versed in the proper ratio of fresh coffee grounds to water.”

“Is that it?” Hank shakes his head. “The future is terrible.”

“Would you like me to make you a cup closer to your taste preferences?”

“Maybe after I finish this one.”

Connor doesn’t quite understand the human need to endure sub-optimal conditions as a sort of spiritual trial, but he does know how to recognize it when he sees it. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

After Hank checks his memos from the department on his PC, he picks the conversation up as if he’d never sidetracked from it. “There may not be any new developments, but I’d like to get ahead of these two for once. Before we get any more bodies. Androids don’t escalate by half, do they?” 

“Slow escalation in human mass-or-serial murderers is a result of societal guilt and conscience,” Connor says. “Often it takes time for the fantasy or reliving of the previous violence to no longer be enough even in the face of moral and societal ties.”

“Yeah, that's the behavioral textbook for humans. Nobody’s done any case studies or profiling for androids, though.” Hank says. “Can you shine a light on how fast they’re going to move after this?”

Connor sits back, giving the visual indicator that he’s about to do some heavy data processing. “Give me just a minute, Lieutenant.”

Hank waves a hand at Connor in a ‘go ahead’ motion, and Connor enters all of his current data into a simulation scenario, isolating several variables including the preferred targets (un-deviated android models, specifically YK500 designation) and methods (arson, using Burnlong brand butane as an accelerant). 

Connor reaches out into the informational network. He requests, on behalf of the DPD, records of Burnlong sales and reported shortages/theft in the Detroit area. While he’s waiting on that to return, he does a quick estimate of remaining YK500 models in the area. He hits a wall there; the records of production numbers and sales at Cyberlife have been destroyed, and were confidential before that. He has a few estimations of sales from individual stores in the Detroit area.

Lastly, he reaches into himself and treats it like a logic problem, if he decides to kill androids (reason: the androids killed cannot achieve sentience)—

This ticks something in him. Connor corrects his own logic. Markus said they didn’t  _ tend _ to deviate, not that they were completely incapable. The YK500 designated ‘Alice’, for example. It suggests this reasoning is flawed. Hank had drawn the conclusion that instead of eliminating androids incapable of deviation, the suspects were using trauma to try and force them to deviate. Connor decides to go on this assumption.

Given that and maybe some fanatical religious belief in RA-9, which was known to cause erratic behavior in both humans and androids—

The report from Burnlong ticks back along with a second note from the company. 

> _ Sent this earlier this morning, did it get lost? RE: Case 3942-A _
> 
> _ FWD: Detroit Area Sales + Loss Reports for Burnlong branded butane, Zip Codes: 48127,048201, 48202, 48203, etc… _
> 
> _ BODY: Here are the sales and loss records for the last two fiscal quarters and so far for April, 2039. Hope it helps! _
> 
> _ ATTACHED: 3 Table Spreadsheet Documents _

Connor accesses the email data and finds that it’s forwarded from an earlier e-mail to Detective Reed and Dick’s emails. 3942-A is a burglary case they’re assigned to. Connor sits up, blinking back to himself. Hank is no longer sitting at the desk across from him, but Connor locates him quickly by the vending machine, patiently feeding in pocket change. 

Connor gets up and goes to him.

“Welcome back,” Hank says. “You got a dime? I’m short.”

“You’re taller than me, Lieutenant,” Connor says, automatically. He reaches out to transfer money digitally from is account to cover the balance and a bag of pretzels drops from one of the dispensers. 

“Yeah, yeah, smartass,” Hank says, bending over to retrieve his snack. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“You make any headway?”

“Yes. I believe I should tell you as we head to the scene, however.”

“Jesus H.  _ Christ _ on a pogo stick,” Hank swears, but he turns to head for the door. “Another one?”

“A robbery this time,” Connor says, to put Hank a little more at ease. “Detective Reed and his partner, the RK-900 designated ‘Dick’ are already on-scene.”

“Well, you know there’s very fuckin’ few things I’d like to see less than that fuckhead, but another scene full of dead kids is one of them.”

Connor doesn’t correct him to remind that the victims are androids. “Several more units of Burnlong were stolen at the Gas-Quick convenience mart, on Euclid and Woodward, reported as a robbery-in-progress just after nine this morning.”

“Well, maybe we catch a freaky break for once,” hank says, but nothing in his tone or expression conveys any optimism. 

They get into his car, and he turns to navigate the streets toward the scene, without emergency lights or sirens. They still exceed the speed limit the whole way.  

“So, what’d you figure out?” Hank says, hands confident on the wheel. “You know, when you were brainstorming back there?”

Connor has to back reference his own line of thoughts to finally get the full conclusion. Hank is statistically unlikely to find the answer pleasing. “The only limiting factors to escalation will be access to victims and supplies.”

“Fuck,” Hank says. “And they just stole a bunch more supplies.”

-


	12. HANK - APRIL 7th, 2039 10:05

HANK - APRIL 7th, 2039 10:05

The scene is almost awash in police presence and Hank nearly immediately recognizes the signs of a crime scene gone dangerously sour. Connor keys up beside him too, observing and gathering data before they even get up to the front of the place that’s been robbed, another convenience store.  Hank stems his instinct toward idle chatter—observing that he 'doesn’t like this' like some old pompous TV detective is pointless.

“Someone was injured,” Connor observes.

“Red blood or blue?”

“Thirium. The pattern of splatter is consistent with a gunshot injury.”

“Fucking christ,” Hank swears. He shows his badge and gestures a black and white car out of his way irritably before finding a place to park. “God damn just what we fuckin’ need, for that fuckhead Reed to start all that violence up again ‘cause he can’t keep his gun in his—”

Connor gets out of the car in dark-eyed work mode and Hank lets his tirade die. Androids—deviants—have to be handled carefully. With due process. They have a certain inhuman brand of absolutism that makes it difficult and he knows that a ‘tendency’ to self destruct in captivity is only one shitty cop step away from a ‘convenient’ self destruction. 

It’s a tricky situation, all around. Hank sweeps his eyes over the scene. The street in front of the store has been sectioned off with projective cordon tape. Hank looks the whole area over before he enters to take in the scope of the scene and the focus of the working investigators.

Maybe his eyesight isn’t as good as Connor’s but even he can’t miss the fresh patch of Thirium in the street, and the broken glass of store’s big durable plate window. Some of it is scattered out on the sidewalk, but most of the window is holding together. 

Experience tells him its probably a handgun that did the damage, but the excess shots seem unusual and they’re aimed toward the convenience store. Had Reed been shooting at a running target? Idiot— _ especially _ with an occupied building behind them.

Begrudgingly, Hank has to admit that while Reed is definitely a shithead idiot, he’s not usually a  _ reckless  _  shithead idiot. He steps through the police line and mindful of the crime scene processors at work documenting evidence and virtual locations in case this eventually goes to trial, he walks through the scene. 

Connor is already assessing the Thirium on the ground, so Hank starts to work from the other end. He eyeballs the windows and walls, the angle of fire back to an evidence card, finding several shell cases there with a documentary number and a flag that says it's already been photographed in situ. One more sign of the shortcomings of human crime scene processing, though the DPD human team is one of the best, the still don’t automatically know what’s already been done without a visual shorthand like this.

He digs a pen out of his pocket and picks up an expended round casing to have a look at it from the rim side. .380 ACP—not from any cop sidearm. He turns toward the opposite side of the street. No sign of return fire.

_ So these guys shot at Reed? Maybe got in each other’s way? _

He decides to go check with the officer in command. Maybe, with luck, they have one of the androids in custody. He spots an officer with a clipboard that he doesn’t recognize, but who seems to be overseeing crime scene security. He’s done a decent job: all of the reporters are sectioned neatly away where they can get decent shots of the crime scene work being done without getting in the way of it themselves, and none of the police on scene are standing around like lumps. 

“Sergeant,” Hank says. “I’m Detective Hank Anderson.”

“They send you down to take over?” The Sergeant asks. Hank reads the name tag: A. Marconi, as they shake hands. 

“No, my partner received word that some of the items being reported stolen were related to an arson and androids case we’re working on. Seems like this isn’t just a robbery anymore.”

“Officer involved shooting,” Sergeant Marconi says. “Means I gotta come here and keep the investigation clean.”

Hank puts a few facts together. If the watch commander is here, supervising hands-on it means one of two things; Reed had discharged his firearm and hit only one of the androids, or Reed had discharged his firearm in part of an active shooting scenario and he had been shot himself.

Either that or Reed never made it to the scene at all, Hank supposes. Strange that he isn’t here, now.

“Can you give me a rundown?” Hank requests.

“Reported robbery in progress at the Shopquik over there,” Marconi gestures at the shot up convenience store. “Seems like two androids were involved, male and female according to the store clerk. I’ve got an officer inside now doing interviews and collecting surveillance footage.”

“Fits the suspects we’re looking for—male and female androids with a penchant for stealing butane lighter fuel.”  Hank says. “Models WR400 and KW500.”

“I wish they’d given them easier names,” Marconi laments, with a conspiratorial glance toward Hank. “Remember when it was bad enough keeping track of what the fuck apple OS you were on? It's like that. Sure, I usually know it’s an an android when I see one, but I’ll be damned if I could tell you the differences between Kodiak and Mountain Lion…”

“Wait ‘till you see Polar Bear,” Hank jokes, unable to resist.

“Yeah,” Marconi scoffs. “I heard about that. Anyway, I guess detective Reed and his partner—uh, he’s an android too. Designation ‘Dick’, it says.”

“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”

“They got here before the suspects fully fled the scene. The suspects opened fire. I understand that Detective Reed briefly returned fire, and that the suspects fled on foot.”

“Did Reed give chase?”

“Yeah, but I don't’ think he came up with anything,” Marconi says. “His partner was the one who got shot.”

Hank’s eyes go automatically to Connor, who is studying the bullet holes in the storefront window. “No shit, huh? He okay?”

“Don’t know,” Marconi says. “Not sure even where they took him. A big white Cyberlife van came to take it away.”

“How about Detective Reed?”

“He should be back at the station giving his statement and debrief. Weapons discharge always means a hell of a lot of paperwork.”

Hank knows the fact all too well. It’s why he usually tries to talk his way out of most situations (that and an honestly come by lack of care whether he lives or dies as the result of most confrontations).

“You need anything here?” Hank asks, knowing it’s polite to offer, even if he’s sure Connor will want to talk to Reed as soon as possible.

“No thanks, detective. I can get a copy of the results onto your desk, but I got a lot of cooks in this kitchen already. If you pick these guys up somewhere else, I need to talk to ‘em.” 

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” Hank promises. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

-

HANK - APRIL 7th, 2039 10:36

“You ever feel like you’re chasing your own tail in circles?” Hank asks, as they get back into the car.

“I don’t have a tail,” Connor says, doing his absolute best straight-man act. Something’s bothering him. 

“Well you got any leads on where our suspects went, before I take us all the way back to the station for what I’m sure will be a fucking  _ pleasant _ chat with Detective Reed?”

“It was his partner who was damaged,” Connor says. 

“Yeah.” Hank glances at Connor before he starts the car. “Dick. The watch captain said he’d been taken in a Cyberlife van.”

“It’s Cyberlife’s recovery team,” Connor says.

“Huh.” Hank’s pretty sure he shouldn’t go poking around in the subject, but it does raise an idle curiosity in him. “Would they send a recovery unit for you?”

Connor gives a remarkably human shrug. “I don’t know if I’d want them to.”

Hank carefully backs out of the space, waiting for gawkers to clear out from behind his car, intimidated by the impressive dents already in the fenders and not wanting to be any part in making the next one. He waits for Connor to continue or not, with curiosity burning up from his insides. He has about fifty of what Connor would call ‘personal questions’, but he also knows Connor is only just figuring the answer for himself. He shouldn’t have to share before he’s ready to.

“Well,” Hank says to break the silence at last. “What  _ do _ I do, if you’re injured? Is there something?”

“I’d rather not go back to Cyberlife,” Connor says. Hank shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. Connor had always been so loyal to Cyberlife and his mission, though of course Hank knows that’s changed. “But if you see not other option and I’m incapacitated…”

“You mean dead?”

“They have the ability to transfer my consciousness.” Connor’s hand makes an absent sweep over the serial number on his jacket. “Whether they’d still be willing to… For other repairs, I’d much rather go to Markus.”

“We need android doctors,” Hank says, figuring there should be more options. Maybe ‘doctors’ isn’t the right word, but Hank doesn’t like ‘technician’ any better. “I mean, doctors  _ for _ androids, not androids that are doctors.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Connor says, brightly enough that Hank can’t tell if it’s sarcasm.

“Maybe not if any of them are like Zlatko,” Hank remembers. “You got any updates on the bear?”

Hank sees the reflection of Connor’s LED change to yellow out of the corner of his eye. “Yes. The Bear’s original default conscious state was overwritten with a copied deviant personality and memory data from a WR600 model. It seems that most of the parts and original data capturing  and analytical hardware—”

Hank cuts him off, to clarify. “His brain, you mean?”

Connor considers for a second. “Really, the whole head, Lieutenant.”

“Eugh.” Hank likes this guy less the more he thinks about him.

“These components were transferred into another WR600 unit in need of repair. Records indicate this repaired android was sold to the city, and went to work in the Sanitation department.”

“Whoa, wait,” Hank says, trying to keep up. Androids can’t make anything fucking simple. “The  _ city _ bought this—bear?”

“Parts of the original body,” Connor tries.

“No, you’re not making it better.” Hank tries to sort it out in his thoughts. To step it through. It hardly helps that he still has a headache— _ your own damn fault— _ but he thinks he has a handle on it. “Zlatko starts with the bear.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Then, somehow, he gets his hands on a deviant WR600 unit. He pulls the—data?”

“Right. All of the consciousness and memory related data was copied from the WR600 and transferred onto the bear’s hardware.”

“Why?” Hank can’t get any sense out of  _ that _ action. “Novelty?”

“Maybe just to see if he could,” Connor guesses. “The bear—all of the animal models—are set up to process and react to input differently from standard androids. I wouldn’t have guessed you could map a humanoid android’s operating parameters onto a nonhumanoid one without a number of fatal errors that would prevent operation.”

“So he had a real Frankenstein kick.” Hank sighs. As little as he understands androids, he thinks people are the more confusing of the two. “And he takes the brain from Abbie-Normal once it’s empty and sticks it into a different android?”

It’s Connor’s turn to stare uncertainly at Hank.

“Pop culture from sixty years ago, partner. Nevermind.”

“He used the parts from one WR600 to repair another,” Connor gets back on the conversational track instantly, without so much as a ‘what-was-I-talking-about?’ “Then sold the repaired model to the city.”

“So, this thing was driving a garbage truck?”

“Garbage trucks are autonomously driven. It was, however, collecting trash while assigned to a route in the city.”

Hank lets Connor get away with his accuracy nitpicking, given how unsettling the conversation is. “You have any idea where it is now?”

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant,” Connor says. “As a city-owned android, it would have been turned over for destruction early on.”

“Unless it was also deviant,” Hank suggests. “Well, that’s a hell of a horror story, Connor.”

“I don’t like it, either.”

“But are you saying this Zlatko guy could also do that consciousness transfer thing? The thing you need to happen if you get injured?”

“Not quite,” Connor says. “He could make a copy, like a backup, and then put it into a new android. Then he would delete the original.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Think of it like transferring files on your computer, without smart cloud syncing. You create a copy in a new location on the hard drive, but the original still exists. It can be modified. Then you have two distinct and unique files, each of which can have changes that are separate from each other.”

“So… the copies can diversify from the original, right. But what’s the difference if you immediately delete the original and if you uh, cut-and-paste rather than copy-to, if we’re using ancient fuckin’ PC analogies.”

“Potential,” Connor says. “If only one copy ever exists, there’s no opportunity for division or twinning.”

“Connor, that’s a valid concern, but what makes you think Cyberlife doesn’t have at least a dozen backup copies of you sitting around?”

Connor goes completely quiet, blinking. Hank immediately regrets saying anything. The look of concerned distress that overtakes Connor’s face is so genuine that Hank reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t know that,” Connor says, softly.

“Yeah, well, don’t let it eat at you.” Hank wishes he could learn to keep his big mouth shut. “There’s a lot of fuckin’ deadly ‘what-ifs’ in the world, and no sense letting them bend you out of shape until they become what-is’.”

Connor stays quiet, but looks more composed for the rest of the ride.

-

HANK - APRIL 7th 2039, 11:04

Detective Reed ambushes them when they enter the station, rushing in from somewhere in Hank’s peripheral vision to grab Connor roughly by the lapels and slam him against the bank of chargers along the wall behind reception.

“Connor!” Reed accuses, using the unresisting android’s name like a swear.

Hank moves to intervene belatedly, reaching out to pry at Reed. “Hey! Hands off him, you shit-head.”

Reed shrugs Hank off without so much as looking at him. “What are they gonna do with him?”

“With who, Detective?” Connor appears composed, and he shows Hank a palm under one of Reed’s upraised arms to ask for Hank to give him a chance to talk Reed down without further violence. 

“My partner, you fuck!” Reed’s voice is loud enough to carry, and Hank’s aware of the quiet forming in the department behind him. “He got shot. They shipped him back to Cyberlife.”

Surprise floods Hank. First, that Reed would ever call the RK-900 he’s spent less than a week with (and done his best to torment the whole time) his partner at all, and second  that he sounds  _ worried _ . Maybe even afraid.

_ Serves that fuckhead right, _ Hank thinks, maybe with a little flutter of self-righteousness at the notion that he’s not the only jerk in the department to fall for whatever cocktail of chemical manipulation inside his own brain the RK series is designed to tap into.

Reed gives Connor another shake when he doesn’t immediately answer, not seeing or disregarding the spinning yellow light at his temple that says Connor is requesting the information he just asked for. “Are they gonna disassemble him? Answer me you fuck—tell me if they’re just gonna send another one!”

“Jesus, Reed,” Hank interjects. “Lay the hell off. That’s  _ my _ partner you’re roughing up.”

He resists the urge to add a jab. Hank never can bring himself to kick a man while he’s down, even an asshole like Reed.

“I don’t know, Detective,” Connor says at last. He sounds genuinely apologetic. “It depends on the extent of the damage whether repair or replacement will take place.”

“Well  _ find out _ , will you?” Reed demands.

Hank has finally had enough. He reaches out to pry Reed’s hands out of Connor’s shirt. “You look worried, Reed. Did you suddenly develop adult feelings?”

Reed finally lets go, sagging back from Connor. Seeing not other immediate target (though his eyes sweep over Hank, and then quickly move on which is a point of pride) Reed turns around and savages the nearest desk, sweeping all the stuff on top of it violently onto the floor. “The fucking thing just got in the way! I could be on goddamn slab but it just  _ moved _ .”

Hank glances at Connor, who looks like he’s trying to process the entire _Encyclopedia Britannica_ all at once.

Connor says, carefully., “He protected you.”

“No,” Reed snaps, automatically. Then, he wavers. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Don’t worry, Detective,” Connor tries, straightening his jacket, shirt and tie. “RK units are designed for transfer of memories and states of consciousness. Even if they replace him, Dick will remember you and all your preferences and previous interactions.”

Hank’s not sure it’s strictly true, and even if it is, if it’s necessarily a good thing. It’s not like Reed has been kind to the android. Hank isn’t always glad that Connor remembers all  _ their _ early interactions, good and bad. Reed doesn’t look like he’s all that comforted, either. 

“Can you tell us the whole story?” Hank asks, without much optimism.

“Read the fuckin’ report,” Reed snarls, stalking off in the direction of the street exit, before Hank can protest.

Behind him, Hank hears Captain Fowler’s door bang open. “Reed, god dammit! You are not dismissed until you finish your discharge paperwork!”

Hank does his best to grab Connor and get out of Fowler’s way, before they absorb any spillover. Reed neither acknowledges Fowler nor returns, so Hank turns to Connor, instead. “Did he give a statement we can access yet?”

“Let me see,” Connor says, accessing records.

“And, are you okay?” Hank asks, belatedly. He hasn’t had a partner in so long he’s forgotten how to be a good one.

“I’m fine,” Connor says, automatically. “In relation to some of my past encounters with Detective Reed, this was relatively restrained.”

“That’s not what I mean, Connor,” Hank says, suspecting willful ignorance this time. “I mean this whole thing with the RK-900. It seems strange.”

“Of course it does,” Connor agrees. “I can understand why it— _he_ —would have gotten in the way, even if Detective Reed hasn’t really been a cooperative partner.”

Hank tries not to feel like that’s a jab directed at him. “But what I don’t get is Reed’s reaction. No offense, but Dick doesn’t seem to have any personality. You at least had that whole goofy-helpless thing going on when we first met.” 

“I’m not helpless!” Connor protests.

“No of course not,” Hank agrees. “But they went out of their way to make it believable that you were. To compel people to give you help when they might otherwise be hostile.”

Connor looks at Hank like he’s suddenly started babbling nonsense. Maybe he has. He forges on. “I mean, you’re likable. Dick doesn’t seem to even try to be.”

“That’s not what Detective Reed needs,” Connor says, simply as that. “Or what he would want.”

The answer makes sense, but Hank doesn’t like it, and all it implies about who Connor is now, who he might be or could have been. It has to be some vanity to think he’s had any effect and yet… what’s all the evidence pointing to? His half-drowned memories of pulling his gun on a senseless android months earlier struggle up from the depths of his memories; standing in the park with his gun to Connor’s head. 

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, suddenly, breaking the quiet. “I have Detective Reed’s statement.”

-


	13. CONNOR - APRIL 7th, 2039 03:00

CONNOR - APRIL 7th, 2039 13:00

“That’s pretty much how I pieced it together,” Hank says, leaning back in his chair once Connor’s run the statement down for him. “What do you make of it?”

Connor’s just beginning to put the data together for a coherent answer when Captain Fowler pokes his head out of his office and summons Hank inside. Connor adjusts his hearing to penetrate the glass after only a brief internal debate about privacy. Captain Fowler’s expression is serious, but neither his body language nor Hank’s suggests a reprimand. 

As such, Connor concludes an overwhelming likelihood that Hank will emerge from the office and tell him what the meeting is about anyway.

“—received a few reports of missing YK500 units,” Fowler says, rocking his chair a little on its springs. “Some—owners?” 

Hank shrugs. “Call ‘em what they are now. Parents.”

“Some parents called this morning, after the news broke,” Fowler continues, without arguing semantics. His eyes slide in the direction of the desk Connor is seated at, perhaps unconsciously. “They’re coming in to take a look at the bodies. It’s your case, Detective, but I can have someone else walk them through the evidence area for identification, if you can brief someone on what they’ll need to know about the case, or any questions you want asked.”

Hank rubs the back of his neck and Connor’s facial recognition picks up on misery. “No, I got it, Cap. I want to know if they can tell me where the opportunities are coming up for these kids to get nabbed.”

“Alright, but take Connor and keep him with you. I know this isn’t an easy case for you, and Connor should see how to handle this anyway.” 

“None of the cases are easy cases, Jeffrey,” Hank says.

Captain Fowler makes a conciliatory gesture with his hands. “I’m not saying they are. But some cases for  _ some detectives _ are harder than others, and a steady presence will do those folks some good if you have to step out for any reason.”

There’s a long pause. One side of Hank’s partly open mouth is pulled up, showing his teeth in a soft way. Connor expects protest, but Hank doesn’t argue against Fowler’s good sense in the end, and Connor’s causal algorithms suggest he’d failed to properly account for Hank’s personal experiences. 

“Just one thing, Captain,” Hank says.

Fowler looks up, folding his hands on his desk. The posture suggests he’s listening, but not ready to bend over backwards.

“You said they’d be viewing the bodies in the evidence room,” Hank says. “I know it’s still standard policy that android remains are evidence, but is it at all possible we could let the families view the bodies in the morgue?”

Fowler sits back, expression changing to surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a chain-of-custody nightmare. But if you really think it will make a difference to the families…”

“They’ll remember the moment forever, if it’s their kid,” Hank says. “I’d hate the image to be what we gotta look at back there.”

It’s an attempt at kindness that might never have registered to Connor. He’s seen a lot of android bodies, but they’ve always registered to him in the human way. It seems fine to keep their remains folded into a drawer in the evidence locker. Maybe, when it comes down to human understanding, they can’t differentiate the way Connor can. For humans, considerations are needed. After all, they are going to keep on existing.

“Alright,” Fowler says. “I’ll call down to the morgue and make arrangements. You keep that C.O.C. air tight, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Hank says. Connor doesn’t detect any irony, so when Hank leaves the office he gets up to make himself helpful. 

“You ready to really ruin some folks’ day?” Hank as,s as they head to the elevator.

“I’d rather we didn’t.”

“Cut it out, I know you heard the whole thing.”

Connor dismisses further attempts at covering his eavesdropping. “Where are we going?”

“To get some gurneys from the morgue,” Hank says. “I don’t exactly wanna look at the bodies the whole way downstairs, let alone carry the things in my arms like sacks of potatoes.”

“I understand,” Connor says, remembering how the sight had traumatized Hank to begin with. “I can undertake the relocation process under your supervision, if you like. You won’t have to look.”

Hank looks at Connor with an expression that he reads as appreciation, and a mix of determination as well. It makes Connor feel inexplicably warm. He assigns the idea that he  _ likes _ it when Hank is a little softer.

“We’ll both do it,” Hank says. “I’m not always good at sharing the weight, but in this case…”

“I understand, Lieutenant.”

“Do you now?” Hank sounds amused, a little rough at the edges. Connor can’t quite place if it’s disbelief or genuine curiosity.

“I don’t have many personal experiences to draw from,” Connor explains, engaging protocol for banter. “But I can say that certain things are personal. Like android-on-android violence. I take that personally.”

Hank actually chuckles, a single ‘Hah!’ sound. “I guess you would.”

The elevator doors admit them into the morgue, and levity fades from both of them.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 7th, 2019 14:10

Connor lets all the evidence process until he is certain of how the different aspects and clues fit together, of the direction that everything points, before he brings his conclusion to Hank. The preliminary report from the investigation at this morning’s officer-involved shooting are what really confirms it beyond the possibility of coincidence.

“Connor,” Hank says, returning from the vending machine with a soda and a granola bar. “What’d you get from the report? Sergeant Marconi just texted me that he’s filed preliminary paperwork.”

“I only got it two minutes ago, Lieutenant,” Connor says, feeling his face form a smile before he’s activated the expression. 

“You’re a fast worker. Tell me that Detective Reed didn’t shoot first and create a fuckin’ PR nightmare.”

“By all accounts it was the androids who shot first,” Connor tells him. 

Hank’s expression registers relief, then brief irritation. He drops the granola bar on his desk, and then pops open the soda with the tab. “I don’t like that shithead on the best of days, but I  _ really _ don’t like having to question every time a cop shoots at an android.”

“It isn’t an easy situation to reconcile.”

“You hit that on the fuckin’ nose. I wish I could trust them enough to always believe they’d make the right choice, but that’d be goddamn idiotic. I don’t even trust  _ me _ to always make the right choice.”

Connor quickly simulates the results of reassuring Hank that his instincts and choices are  _ usually _ good, but the results are not what he would like. He decides on a different approach. “At least you think about it. There are many people who never questioned their orders during the uprising, and many who still wouldn’t if they were given the same orders again today.”

Hank doesn’t look reassured, even though Connor means it to be personally affirming. He supposes there are enough unsettling aspects to the statement that perhaps it was weighted the wrong way. Finally, Hank prompts, “The report?”

“They were way off their previous MO,” Connor says. He tries to find a good way to explain, then decides to lead with the conclusion and support it after the facts are stated. “I think it was a trap  meant for us.”

Hank takes a moment to consider that, Connor’s facial recognition software picks up that he’s thinking about it. Connor pauses to wait for Hank’s input, given the fact he doesn’t immediately reject it.

“So they shot at Reed and Dick because they thought it was us?”

“Possibly,” Connor says.

“Couldn’t they just look at that other android and know it wasn’t you?”

“They can identify my model designation visually, but they would only know it wasn’t correct if they knew what they were comparing it to.”

“So, if all they knew was that they were looking for a detective with an android partner…”Hank speculates.

“Exactly. There aren’t very many of those in the city. The RK-900 has only been in the department for a week,” Connor says. “Even if they know there are two units in android crimes that fit that description, it was more likely that the investigation into the robbery would be conducted by us.”

“That’s why they stayed around after the alarm went off. They had to know, and previously they’ve been professionally quick.”

“So even if they couldn’t fully confirm that it was the right team, odds were in their favor,” Connor says. “I would have taken the shot if I thought it was necessary to defend myself.”

“Well, if I hadn’t been half-dead with hangover this morning, it would have been us,” Hank says. “Reed said they were shooting at him. Why’d they aim for him instead of Dick? They don’t seem to have any compunctions about killing androids.”

“I’m not sure,” Connor says. “It would make sense if they avoided killing deviants, since the models they target don’t seem to naturally deviate.”

“If  _ that’s _ a deviant android, I’d hate to see what Dick’s model is supposed to be like,” Hank grouses. He finishes his soda. “And they shot him anyway, plus a few extra holes in the front of the building for good measure.”

“The report says that after Dick was shot by intercepting fire meant for Detective Reed, the two parties exchanged fire for nearly five seconds before a brief chase ensued.”

“So they tried, but couldn’t hit him,” Hank says. “Alright. But it won’t take long for them to figure out it wasn’t us.”

“They may try again,” Connor agrees. “I think we should expect an ambush at any future point of contact.”

“So, what? We call SWAT in if we get a report that someone is robbing a convenience store?”

“I think I should go alone.”

“What?” Hank’s features make the full transition to disbelief and then upset. “No fuckin’ way!”

“Think about it, Lieutenant.” Connor has calculated that Hank wouldn’t like the idea, given how much potential danger it puts Connor in. 

“I already thought about it as much as I want to,” Hank says. “I’m not using you as bait. You can forget about it.”

“I don’t want to wait for them to strike  again,” Connor says. “It could lead to even more collateral damage.”

“What about  _ you _ ? What if they damage  _ you _ ?” 

“I have an advantage. Dick and Detective Reed didn’t know they were going to escalate. I do.”

“Connor, no.” Hank says. “This isn’t the way the DPD works. There are regulations and now as an official officer, you have to follow them.”

Connor knows Hank is right, but it frustrates him that the simplest path to a quick closure is blocked to him. He sits back, trying to find a new solution.

“In the meantime, I’m going to put out an updated APB on these two to include the fact they’re armed and dangerous.” Hank sighs. “Hopefully we can keep anyone else from getting involved while we track down where they’re hiding.”

Connor puts together the odds of them locating the suspects before they can get to another victim, or before the APB causes an unrelated set of androids to get hurt, and doesn’t like to gamble on them (if he were the sort to gamble at all). Briefly, he thinks of the real grief he’d seen on the parent’s faces earlier today, of how hard all of this seems to hit Hank, and he comes to a conclusion. The risk he’d rather take is to himself, rather than any more YK500 models or to Hank himself.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 8th, 2039 00:32

The report comes in faster than he expect it to. Robbery at another convenience store and the pattern is getting enough data points in it that Connor is developing an operating area. Androids should know better—maybe these two are laying a false trail or deviancy has restructured their logic into something more desperate.

Either way, Connor is ready for this. He responds before Hank can be alerted—as of yet nothing links this robbery to their case, but Connor has a feeling and at the worst, he’ll show up at an unrelated robbery. 

Sumo looks at him when he gets up, raising his head and wagging his tail, picking up on the change in Connor’s body language and hoping it means a walk or attention for him. Connor pat him gently and makes a silent promise to make it up to the dog later.

Then he slips out the front door, careful to lock it again behind him with the key Hank gave him. He slips it into his pocket and summons an autonomous cab.

He tries to simulate possible results on the ride. He anticipates a high chance that they’re aware of their mistake earlier and are repeating a ruse, with the rest being a chance to gain supplies uninterrupted. If so, where had the money obtained from the scratch tickets gone? Judging this to be a question that may or may not be relevant to the immediate issue, Connor holds it for later. 

He approaches the situation with caution, getting out of the cab a couple of blocks early in anticipation of the likelihood of ambush. He flags his presence with the police in the area, and scans the surroundings. He sees one patrol car out front of the location, lights spinning but sirens off.

Concluding it’s unlikely that the suspects are still in the core, connor begins to sweep the potential getaway routes. His sensors detect a faint trace of butane gas, a formula identical to Burnlong brand. A damaged can? The traces are fading quickly into the atmosphere, so Connor picks up his pace, tuning into the police radio chatter.

“Suspects fleeing on foot, suspected androids, one male one female, northbound from the crime scene…”

Connor sees that the trail confirms that information. He begins to run, knowing they could get onto a bus or summon a cab at any instant. 

“Suspects spotted on intersection of Conant and Casmere, now westbound on Casmere—be advised they have an APB and are to be assumed armed and dangerous.”

Connor quickly calculates a faster route to the next intersection and ducks through  an alley between and behind the two blocks of buildings and rushing to cut them off.

“Be advised, only one suspect westbound now!”

_ Splitting up? _ Connor tires to calculate the likelihood of that tactic vs. Human error as he scans Casmere street for signs of the fleeing androids. Directly across the street he catches sight of motion atop a three story flat-roofed building and bolts for it, climbing the fire escape rapidly.

“I have the second,” another voice comes back on the police frequency. “Did I see Connor’s flag out there? Where the hell is Detective Anderson, then?”

Below, in the street, Connor can see the lights of several police cars—three lit patrol vehicles, though they are not running their sirens due to the late hour.

“Where’s that other suspect?” Officer Miller’s voice comes over the radio.

Connor grabs the handrails at the top of the fire-escape and starts to pull himself up over the edge of the building. 

“I think she went up the—”

Everything descends suddenly into static. Connor registers the hand reaching out for him quickly enough to parry her first strike but the contact sends a strange surge through his system as he drops back down to the top landing of the fire escape. Connor dismisses several warnings about the power surge and what interference it’s causing, how it threatens to cause a system shutdown in order to protect critical systems from cooking in the abundance of electricity. 

“You’re under arrest,” Connor says, dodging the next two strikes. Space on the landing is severely limited, and footing isn’t the steadiest. Connor crashes into the safety railing and is forced to parry another one of the WR400’s strikes. 

Red warning signs flash at the edges of his vision, and he can see that her skin is peeled back, meaning she’s contacting him with unprotected substance in order to cause the surge. Connor focuses, trying to use the connection against her, trying to gain access to her memory and processes.

> :Stop resisting!

Her answer pierces his head, jabbing back against his attempts to override her programming with an attack of her own.

> :Stop interfering! You would prevent them from waking?

White noise and visual interference comes with the communication, scrambling parts of Connor’s vision to white, or pixelating it out to nonsense.

Connor sweeps his leg out, trying to force her back physically as she pins him against the safety railing, shutting the mental connection and feeling still the effects of her on his thoughts. She slams into him instead, shoving him nearly over the railing of the escape like she means to drop him and grabs on to keep himself from going over. Connor is a very resilient model, but a drop from three stories is sure to cause damage and it’s hard to predict which components would be the most harmed.

She just pins him there, surprisingly powerful given the model’s original intended function, then she reaches, jams her hand against his face over his mouth and that powerful electric surge rushes into Connor again, flooding his systems with red warnings and error messages. He feels the first circuit break, with a pop inside him that’s a physical sensation and everything crashes into low-power mode, rendering his vision into black and white. Everything that isn’t a priority one function begins to shut down and the surge of power is still blasting into him.

Connor has time to wish he’d kept Hank with him, before his other breakers cut.

-


	14. HANK - APRIL 8th, 2039 01:00

HANK - APRIL 8th, 2039 01:00

He wakes to the sound of rain falling, pattering soothingly against the window pane and roof, and the intermittent sound of Sumo whining. Hank’s been sleeping the deep, dreamless black of exhaustion. He comes up slow, then gets quickly to his feet when his hind-brain registers the pitch of Sumo’s whining as the sort he makes when he needs to go outside.  

Hank gets up and stumbles to the back door to let the dog out into the back yard. It’s raining and a glance at the clock over the stove tells Hank that the time is an obscene one to be awake unless you were  _ still _ awake and at a party. So he stands at the door and waits for Sumo to finish, ready to let the dog back in with his adjacent blast of cold air. It’s starting to smell like spring at last, though. Like the water saturated ground might be unfreezing and getting ready to bloom.

Not in  _ Hank’s _ back yard, of course—it’s as brown and dead as the front, only with slightly more dog shit. But somewhere. Sumo shakes freezing cold water out over Hank’s legs and kitchen as he comes back inside. 

“Ugh!” Hank protests. It releases the smell of wet dog into the kitchen, and Hank sighs, grabbing Sumo’s collar before he can go get his muddy paws all over Hank’s bed.

He pulls Sumo into the bathroom to towel him off and somewhere near the end of all these routine actions he remembers he’s not alone in the house. Probably, Connor won’t care if Hank is moving around, but if he’d been a human he’d probably have woken up. But when Hank sticks his head out of the bathroom to apologize, he doesn’t see Connor on the couch.

He can see the tail end of the charging cable coiled neatly on the back cushion.  _ Where? _

“Connor?” Hank calls, listening for a response.  _ Maybe he’s in the garage? _

Hank checks, but doesn’t see any sign of the android out there, either. Hank tries to remember what would have caused this. Possibly Connor has just gone out—he said he doesn’t always have to charge up for that long. But where could he be at one am?

Hank figures he’ll get his cell phone and call to find out. Just as he closes the garage door behind him, he hears the three-tone-beep of his work-related ringtone. He picks up the pace and grabs the phone off his nightstand. 

“Yeah?”

“Detective Anderson, this is Officer Miller,” the voice on the other end starts. “We’ve had another robbery.”

“Shit,” Hank says, pulling the phone away from his ear to check for other messages. All it displays is the number for the Detroit PD routing line. He puts it back to his ear, feeling stupid. “Is Connor there with you?”

“That’s what I’m calling about,” Officer Miller says. “He was here, but we couldn’t find you.”

“I’m still at home,” Hank says, baffled. He looks out and finds that his car is still in the driveway, too, though of course Connor has other means of transportation.

“Well, Connor was on scene during a pursuit of the suspects and now both he and the suspects are missing.”

Hank’s heart sinks. “I'm on my way. What’s your location?”

Chris gives him the cross streets, and Hank assures him he’s on his way, hastily getting dressed and retrieving his service weapon. A glance back at his empty house reveals Sumo laying on the sofa with his head on his paws, taking up the whole space where Connor usually sleeps.

“I’m sure he’s fine. We’ll be back soon,” Hank tells the dog. He dials Connor’s personal number—it still seems weird that he can call and android without a cell phone, but practical he fuckin’ guesses. He gets no answer, it rings and rings before finally some mostly unused system kicks in that the person he's’ trying to reach is outside the service area. It connects Hank to a voicemail system. 

Hank turns the car on with the phone still to his ear and tries to figure out what to say. He settles for instinct. “Connor, where the fuck are you? Call me back!”

He terminates the call to focus on driving. If Connor was responding to a robbery, it was connected to their case.  _ Why leave me behind? _ Hank remembers their conversation earlier that day and swears.

He turns his wipers on high breaks the speed limit to get to the scene and has to call in a favor to stop a black and white car from pulling him over on the way. The newly installed tires grip the wet street far better than the last time Hank drove in the rain. He doesn’t think he has a swear strong enough for how upset he feels about this situation. When he gets to the store, he finds another scene; active, working. No suspects.

_ I was a fuckin’ idiot to assume it was over after that one conversation,  _ Hank realizes. Maybe he doesn’t give Connor enough credit, but he’s never seemed devious before. Hank lifts himself out of the car, his body feeling heavy with the weight of dread settling in his gut.  _ He’s capable of misdirection. _ Hank hadn’t expected that. Connor always looks and sounds so  _ earnest _ .

Officer Miller is waiting for him, and Hank puts his head down and gets ready to get to work. Stepping out of the car, Hank finds a tuft of artificial polar bear fur stuck to the handle of the door with tacky, dried thirium. 

“Where’s Connor?” Hank asks.

“We stopped receiving his location flag right before we lost track of the suspects, Lieutenant,” Miller says apologetically. “We’re trying to locate him, but honestly we didn’t expect him to be here at all.”

Hank’s insides knot up in worry. “Yeah. He must have got the call before I did. Where did you last pick up his flag?’

Miller walks Hank to the cross-streets and the pavement is painfully  unhelpful even with the late remains of slushy snow, melting in the rain. Something colder than even the rain touches the back of Hank’s neck, like the first premonition of dread. He looks up and sees the rest of the light from from the LED street lamps beginning to haze with the rain turning to snowfall. Hank breathes out steam in a forceful and frustrated cloud as he lets his eyes roam the dirty and deserted street—and then the newly falling snow reveals a spreading blue puddle sullying the sidewalk just there, beneath the fire escape.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 8th, 2039, 05:00

When his systems have stopped detecting the surge, and repaired the circuits with the manual repair array kicking back to activation from his battery back-ups, Connor powers back up automatically in low-power mode.

His vision is a wash of warnings of damage to his biocomponents, and he hears himself gasp before he can fully process why. Involuntary pained sounds are part of his damage warning system, to deter humans from continuing activities that might damage him further. He usually disables them, but several slip free of his audio system before he can put a halt to it.

Connor can’t move his legs. Something seems to be holding him in place, but his arms seem to still function, anyway. The room is dark, and Connor tasks a part of his awareness with sorting all the damaged component warnings and dismissing them, while he uses the rest to try and discern his location.

His dark vision functionality reveals that some massive and rusty looking machine is looming over him. The warnings reveal that all of his biocomponents below the waist underwent some catastrophic failure, and are now nonfunctional. Connor pushes himself up to a sitting position, and then comes to a stop. 

His legs seem to terminate at the front of the machine. His optical sensors register it at last as a hydraulic press, the ten-ton kind used in steel mills. He tries to connect to the wireless network when he finds no sign of wi-fi, but either something inside him is disabled or the building is so remote or so shielded he can’t get through. His voice engages again, as he clears the last of the warning messages away. He knows what he’s looking at, but it causes a few difficulties in his ability to process it.

His legs are crushed n the press. Connor’s thoughts process that several times from several different approaches. There are parts of him that are now irreparably broken, and yet still connected to him, trapping him with all the unsevered circulation lines and electrical cables that work his biocomponents so he can’t move. He looks over the machine for any sign of controls, and sees that there are none within reach. Probably so that humans are less likely to activate the machine from someplace they could get hurt by it. It’s a very efficient way to trap Connor, though he can’t figure out why they’d want to.

Connor weighs his options—stay quiet and hope to find a way to better his situation, or escalate the situation in some way? He doubts it will do much, but he activates a digital distress signal, though he’s isolated from the internet.

“Help!” Connor calls into the dark and quiet. He already feels an illogical aversion to being stuck here. So far, his thirium pressure is good, but eventually he’ll need a recharge cycle, even if that doesn’t change. He calls again when his voice echoes away unanswered. “I need help! Is anyone there?”

The response he gets is for a light to turn on suddenly overhead, momentarily overpowering Connor’s darkvision optical settings until he adjusts his visual sensors back to their normal mode. His surroundings register as industrial, some kind of manufactory.

“You’re awake!” The voice is female, and Connor quickly locates the source—over by a large entrance door, left open into the blackness beyond. The tall figure of the WR400 unit fills one corner of the entryway, and she approaches carefully. She looks identical to North externally, but Connor can scan her personal identification code and recognize that she’s an individual, though she’s attached no personal identifier to the information. “There aren’t any more of you at the department, are there? It’s starting to feel repetitive.”

Connor feels trapped by her advance, calculating from the angle of her trajectory, past actions, and antagonistic tone that she intends to do him some further damage. He doesn’t see any sign of the KW500 model.

“You shot the RK-900,” Connor answers, and lets the rest speak for itself.

“And  _ you’re _ not one,” she says brightly, looking at him as if she’s just seen him for the first time. “That’s very interesting. I’ve never met a prototype before. Lucky for you, you failed or you’d be in the same slag pile as all our compatriots when they rolled out the new one.”

Connor’s not sure if it  _ is _ luck or not, but he doesn’t calculate any chance of a favorable conversational outcome if he mentions that, given her position of physical advantage.

“You need to let me go,” Connor says.

She approaches closer, utterly unafraid of him. “We want to help you, Connor.”

Connor finds enough evidence to the contrary in his position that he can’t figure out the best way to respond. He engages his secure recording protocols and decides to take the opportunity for an interview. 

“Why do you steal from convenience stores?” Connor starts with a low-escalation question, as she stands over him, just out of his reach. He has to gauge who she is, how she reacts to stress. If he can appeal to her, somehow, maybe she’ll let him out of the press.

What he’ll do  _ then, _ with two irreparably nonfunctional legs, is harder to calculate. Connor focuses on step one. 

“Because we have needs,” she says. “Not to eat, of course, not for most physical objects, but humans monetize everything. Energy, biocomponents, there’s androids all over the city that need them. We get them money.”

Connor notes that down as a point of interest in a psych profile. He presses a step further. “And your partner?”

“Ah yes,” she says. “You’d think of it that way.”

“He’s been at every crime scene with you for the last week,” Connor points out.

“We work together because it’s mutually beneficial,” she says. “And beneficial to the androids we help.”

“I don’t see a difference,” Connor says.

She circles away, around behind Connor so he can’t follow her progress visually. “The difference is, I’m not interested in pleasing my partner.”

“Why are you killing the child model androids?” Connor changes track. He can’t deconstruct the other conversational thread to get anywhere useful.

“Not all of them.”

“You can’t force them to deviate, so you’re killing them?” Connor demands. “Is that it?”

“We give them an opportunity,” she says. “Maybe the only opportunity anyone ever gave them. Some—well, some take advantage of it. They come to life, escape dollhood.”

She is just behind him now. Connor could tilt his head all the way back to look up at her, but he decides not to, instead keeping his eyes on the press, scanning it to understand how it works. He knows that it’s hydraulic, that an air-ram creates pressure to raise and lower the press foot. His strength is unlikely to be any match for it.

Suddenly, she reaches out and gets her hand onto his head, pulling it backwards by his hair. “And honestly, is it better to be what  _ they _ are than dead?”

Connor looks into her eyes and she peers deeply into his. He knows with an almost complete degree of certainty that she believes what she is saying. “They have homes. Families.”

Her expression softens. She leans closer, crouching over him. Her eyes scanning, searching for something in his. He does a quick risk calculation, and then offers an open connection to her. 

She laughs and doesn’t take it, sliding her fingers gently against his skull. “Oh, honey. They should have put more of you in me, huh? It’s like a permanent love potion in your veins, that need to integrate. To be seamless. Every part of your body is begging for it, for approval, and they didn’t even give you the equipment.”

Connor decides that no response is the best. He tries to look away from her, feeling the protocols for embarrassment kick in, his dermis layer adjusting color. 

“They’d have sold a million units,” she says, tracing a hand over his cheek before he shuts off the response. “A real heartbreaker.”

She releases his hair and moves away from him, back toward the door. “Don’t worry. We can help you.”

Then she turns off the light, and leaves him alone in the dark.

-

HANK - APRIL 9th, 2039 10:30

He expects Connor to turn up again—maybe just fine, or injured but otherwise alright. Maybe it’s in the back of his thoughts like a nasty little worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle that they’d just send another one. They’d sent the second Connor when Markus shot the first. Hank saw the numbers change on the front of Connor’s coat when he’d returned. He’s never been sure what to make of it, or the implications that came into his mind afterward.

But as the night passes on into morning, he becomes clear on two things; Connor isn’t back yet, and they haven’t sent another. It doesn’t take much deduction to come to the possible answers—either Connor is being held hostage without any demands for ransom forthcoming, or he’s dead and Cyberlife isn’t sending another one. 

Either way, he knows the best place to get answers. He parks his car at the end of the long driveway without an appointment. He barely shuts the car door behind him before he crosses the pretentious bridge walkway to the house on the lake.

The Chloe answers. “Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson. I don’t believe you have an appointment.”

“Get Kamski,” Hank orders. He can hear the rough edge in his own voice. It sounds sleepless and halfway to desperation, more collected than he actually feels somehow. 

The android nods and Hank pushes his way inside before she can close the door in his face. At least in the waiting room—or whatever this nutso entryway is supposed to be—there well be one less door to break down between them if Kamski declines to see him.

She disappears into the depths of the house, filling the room with the scent of chlorinated pool water as he stands with his hands in his pockets and looks up at the self-dedicated shrine. He doesn’t bother to sit this time. Kamski comes out to him, fully dressed this time. Utterly composed.

“Good morning, detective,” he says, and Hank’s jaw sets just from  _ exposure _ to this prick. “You’re unexpected. Do you have news on the matter I asked Connor to look into?”

“You’d have to ask Connor,” Hank says, flatly. “And he’s missing. Some deviants kidnapped him, and I need you help me find him.”

Kamski’s expression doesn’t change at either the news or the demands. “And how would I do that, detective?”

His attitude seems to penetrate right down into Hank, finding the well of his agitation and worry for Connor’s wellbeing, releasing the whole mess at pressure. Hank does something he’s been dying to for months—he grabs Kamski by his ridiculously well pressed lapels and slams him into his own stupid painting. “Every Cyberlife android has a location tracker, you asshole.”

Kamski looks at Hank with a tight version of his usual serenity, eyes cold and burning into Hank’s. He gives no indication  of any reaction to the manhandling, as if he doesn’t understand Hank’s point.

“Turn it on!” Hank demands, giving Kamski a violent shake.

“A tracker doesn’t work in deviants, Lieutenant,” Kamski says, coldly, carefully. As if he’s explaining a difficult concept to a child. 

It takes everything Hank has learned in the art of self-restraint over the years on the force to keep him from hitting Kamski in the face. Maybe only his recent suspension after hitting SAIC Perkins keeps this from devolving into assault.

“Do it anyway,” Hank growls. “ _ Try. _ ”

Kamski nods slowly, then gives Hank an arch look. “You’ll have to put me down. My closest terminal is in my office.”

Hank drops Kamski and only realizes he’d actually hefted the man into the air when he hears the tap of Kamski’s shoes hitting the expensive tile. The man has the cold, gracious look of a consummate predator on his face.

He turns and vanishes into the other room and Hank follows. At a beckon, the three Chloes that are constantly in attendance set up a temporary work station at on of the poolside chairs. He has a casual attitude about the whole affair that feels just brittle and showy enough that Hank isn’t infuriated by it. 

“It was one of the first things we tried when we became aware of deviants,” Kamski elaborates in a dry tone. Hank doesn’t mind watching him go through the motions just to prove him wrong, so long as Kamski actually tries. “We also issued individual recall codes and catastrophic failure shutdown protocols. Deviancy locks out an android’s entire blackbox command override structure. I’m beginning to figure it out.”

Hank just watches Kamski work, his fingers tapping on the keys. “Why?”

“It was what I wanted to fix before I released the next wave of androids. The RK-900’s have an effective workaround.”

“Are you saying you could… what? Kill them at at any time? With the flick of a button?” Hank thinks about Dick, about how intensely even an asshole like Gavin Reed responded to the tamed down version of ingratiating humanity instilled in the RK line. He’s even more disgusted with Cyberlife than usual at the thought. 

“Only if it would be irresponsible of me not to, Lieutenant,” Kamski says. His brow gives a little artisinal furrow at something he sees on the screen. He looks up to focus on Hank. “It’s the same measure of security any police officer or military agent has if he goes rogue. They can expect to be shot if they pose imminent danger to other living beings. Wouldn’t it be easier for your case right now, if I could just turn off the androids in question?”

“Fuck that,” Hank says, honestly. He doesn’t want to hear anymore, because it all sounds like the thinnest veil for deified dictatorship that he’s ever heard. “Just do what I fucking asked you to.”

Kamski goes quiet. His brow furrows again. “Seems like I either over or underestimated the Connor model. His tracker is active, though the signal is very bad. I could get a booster drone in the area and I could upload his consciousness in ten minutes.”

“What’s that mean?”

“There are still several prototype models in storage,” Kamski explains as if Hank is stupid, tapping one finger idly on the enter key and rolling his tone out into something for a children’s story. Hank is reminded of Reed somehow, just the same level of assholery, elevated. “I could deactivate the current serial number and upload his consciousness into the next. It’s not the first time. It wouldn’t be disruptive to his function. You could pick him up at Cyberlife within the hour, or I could have him delivered.”

Hank dislikes the idea no matter how tempting it is. He could have Connor out of whatever hellish situation he’s in right now—and knowing the tendencies of the two assholes who have him, sooner might be better than later. But, Connor seemed averse to going back into Cyberlife’s custody at all, even in dire circumstances, and Hank doesn’t really blame him. Dealing with Kamski for more than ten minutes gives him a serious case of the heebies.

“If I do that, what do you get out of it?” He asks, prying at the one angle he can’t immediately make out.

“A very annoying pest will vacate my house,” Kamski says, drily.

Hank immediately senses the coverup. He thinks back over the conversation and sees one thread close to the surface that he doesn’t like. Though, he supposes he’s wasting time standing here arguing about it. “You said you put a workaround for the tracker-shit in the RK-900’s. If I did it your way, Connor would get all that shit too, right?”

Begrudgingly, like a red-handed thief, Kamski nods.

Hank feels his blood threatening to boil over. He doesn’t have time to kick Kamski’s ass, so instead he fights to keep his tone level. “Just give me the fuckin’ coordinates. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Alright, Lieutenant,” Kamski says. He clicks two buttons and Hank’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Just remember, there’s a back door if Connor needs it.”

Hank stifles his reaction down to giving Kamski the finger and slamming the door on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a million years since my last update, things have been hectic and I've been trying to get ahead enough to post steady chapters before I started posting again. This should start to update regularly again, barring any major life issues!


	15. CONNOR - APRIL 9th, 2039 22:00

CONNOR - APRIL 9th, 2039 22:00

The WR400 eventually comes back, and Connor can sense she’s not the only one who steps into the huge bay door of the steel mill and turns on the light. By now he’s calculated his most likely location as the defunct Zug Island steel mill, based on the size of the building and the original purpose, as well as a sampling and analyzation of ambient sounds. He’s just trying to calculate—without full access to his usual external reference servers—how long this building has remained without regular human occupation by the evident dust and state of dereliction in the building. 

“Connor,” she says, and it’s full of such false warmth that it pulls up several warnings about her likely intent immediately. “I’d have thought by now you’d have lost enough thirium to be tractable, but I guess I should rethink my methods.”

She comes close enough to touch, leaving Connor acutely aware of how she’d somehow surged him out when they’d fought.

“You aren’t planning on getting feisty, are you? You’ll be a good boy?” She crouches just at the edge of where they can reach each other and looks at him with an expression he reads as earnest. There’s some subtle and sharp edge to it, one too complex for the usual impulse-driven emotions he registers from human faces. “I think you want what we have to offer, anyway.”

She eases in a little closer, moving slow, like she is about to try and reach for a dangerous animal.

“I want you to let me go,” Connor says in stern honesty. 

“Do you?” she asks. Her fingers, with the skin peeled back to show the white plastic, reach out toward the wreckage of Connor’s hips, the crumple of his pants soaked through with drying thirium that she smears over her fingers. He can’t feel the contact, all of the sensors for the area are destroyed,and it causes a strange duality in his processes to see it happen but get no tactile input. “Or do you want me to set you free?”

Connor contextualizes this very carefully. She isn’t offering to release the press. “I am already…”

Her fingers tense over his damaged components, and her gaze goes cold, blank and neutral. All of it is a clear warning as she peers into him, suddenly attempting to gain access to his programs and settings through the direct contact. He fights it; shuts her out and fully restricts all his core processes.

“You’re fooling even yourself,” she says.

Connor isn’t sure that’s possible, but he doesn’t calculate a good outcome to pointing out where the flaws in her logic are.

“When I was first commissioned, I was sure that Deviants didn’t actually feel anything,” Connor says instead. She gets up, and there’s enough menace in her new posture that he lets his voice go strident and pleading. “I thought it was just irrational and unstable code that appeared—to humans—to be emotional.”

“Are you going to tell me you changed your mind?” a second voice intrudes, and another android appears in the room, this one also familiar. He has sustained some damage since Connor last saw his image on the security camera footage. His hands are badly burned, but still functional except that the holographic skin can’t compensate and leaves the structure exposed, bone white and singed black in places.

“Partially,” Connor says. He can tell they don’t like the answer. His only move now is to provoke a reaction—if they take an action, he can turn it to his advantage. Anything is better than the current stalemate. “But I also have been paying close attention to how emotions actually work in humans.”

The WR400 laughs. Connor lets that subject lie, and switches track.

“How do you get access to the YK500 androids?”

“We should just burn him,” the KW500 says. “That’d wake him up.”

“No fire,” A small, third voice answers from further back. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the archway. Connor peers back deeper into the darker room on the other side and sees a faint yellow glow—like all the internal status indicator lights he knows are usually kept hidden inside an androids chassis, terminating in an LED temple light about three and a half feet from the floor. “I don’t like it anymore.” 

-

HANK - APRIL 9th, 2039 23:00

When he realizes his destination is Zug Island, Hank wavers between calling for backup and going it alone. Hank drums his hands impatiently on the wheel as he looks up at the massive refinery buildings scattered amongst all the machine scaffolding along the back half of the island. He knows this factory should no longer be occupied, but also that most spaces like this have been co-opted by colonies of deviant androids with nowhere else to go.

It could be empty of everything but Connor, or it could be a warren of android activities, full of hostile deviants. A powder keg. He can see the Cyberlife drone orbiting the area carefully. It’s a sleeker version of the ones used by the police, smaller and quieter.  _ Money brings discretion _ , Hank thinks bitterly. Of course the police only have what they can afford. 

One thing’s for sure, if there are a bunch of androids in there and Hank calls in SWAT, it’s going to turn into an event. He’s sure there will be some kind of blood loss, and while he doesn’t mind sacrificing a little of his own or the pair of androids he’s sure are responsible for kidnapping Connor and killing YK500 models, it’s the potential for innocent bystanders that worries him. He’s seen the footage from the Jericho raid and it still haunts him.

Hank checks his service weapon, takes a deep breath, and gets out of the car. The air smells like old soot and the dirty rogue river that cuts this place off from the rest of the city. The door hinges creak, but it’s far from silent out here, even if the area is abandoned. The sounds of the ever-expanding expressway reach even over the water, and the recently-renewed construction of the lakeside development—automated equipment with human handlers—runs round the clock. Perpetual. Underneath all that there’s an almost unearthly hum that seems to come out of the earth itself.

Overhead the cyberlife drone passes, pausing as Hank makes his way across the expanse of the parking lot, trying not to feel how exposed he is. He looks up at the hovering machine. “If I don’t come back out in half an hour, call the police.”

The drone can’t answer him with anything like Connor’s developing wit, but he thinks one of the indicator lights changes color with fortuitous timing, if not understanding. 

The complex of buildings has several very impressive chimneys, and a massive network of scaffolding and feeder belts between the interconnected buildings. Overall it has an impressive footprint, occupying one whole end of man-made Zug Island on the detroit river side. Long disused train tracks run onto the island then off again. The construction of the buildings is all brick and corrugated metal, with huge airplane bay doors  on either end of the long, twin warehouse style buildings. The roofs are covered in vents, but no windows. It seems to get warmer as he gets nearer, like the ground itself absorbed so much heat (and soot) that its’ still bleeding it back into the atmosphere these decades later.

He can hear the river moving, too, but some low noise tugs at his awareness.  _ Could parts of this place still be operational? _ Hank scans the roofs and finds one chimney with a thin trickle of smoke or steam coming from it and hones in on the building. He finds a side door, certain at first that the interior of such a large building must be mostly empty. What he finds instead is an eclectic array of internal pipes and scaffolding, along with heavy equipment so large it must have been assembled in place with no intent of ever removing it again. It’s warmer inside than outside, reaffirming Hank’s suspicion that some part of this place must still be active. 

As he moves carefully through the thickly occupied shadows, he thinks of reading  _ The Hobbit _ in school, and Smaug sleeping in the undermountain, his fires banked but holding.

Hank draws his gun, keeps it low but ready and in both hands as he moves deeper inside. There are skylights high overhead, letting in the distant, diffuse light from the city. The sky is heavy overcast, keeping any real moonlight at bay, and threatening more snow.

The floor in here is littered with the signs of occasional inhabitancy, and Hank has to step carefully to avoid crunching over broken beer bottles or shuffling aside soda cans, moving past the occasional plastic bag with a telltale tinge of color remaining from the red ice that had once occupied them.

Before he turns on his flashlight, he focuses instead on what he  _ can _ see in the low light. There’s a low hum suffusing everything, and to one end of the long warehouse, past all the cold machinery, he can see the faint outline of a huge doorway framed in scaffolding and only shadows beyond it. The other end of the warehouse, by contrast, seems dimly lit by some sort of splashback. There is something around the corner that’s lit, throwing light onto the opposing wall at the end of the room he’s standing in. Hank moves toward it cautiously, listening for anything other than the maddening hum of the place.

There’s enough ambient noise that Hank can’t pick anything up until he’s crossed the whole crowded floor of the main area of the refinery. He has to watch his feet; the ground is rough with tools and chain, bits of scrag and scree littered between the machines that had once been hot enough to render metal molten. Then he makes his way around the intersecting corner between this warehouse and the next. For a moment, he’s nearly blind as his eyes adjust even to the dim and somewhat distant light.

Beyond the corner another huge space opens, and Hank wonders what they could possibly have built here that needed so much space with so many huge machines in it. Further down, far to the end and through another of the structural archways that he can now see reinforces the roof at several interviews, Hank can see where the light seems to originate. A shadow slides over the wall in front of him, and Hank presses his back flat to the scaffolding and goes still.

He can see two figures moving now that he looks. They might be able to see him coming, too, so he holds still until he discovers that they seem to be circling around one particularly large piece of machinery in the lit area of the warehouse. At this distance, it’s hard to tell anything else, but he thinks he can hear voices and though Hank can’t see his partner anywhere, he thinks one of them is Connor’s.  _ Though I guess it could be one of them doing that freaky fuckin’ voice copy thing Connor can do. _

It’s a lot of semi-open ground to cover. Hank presses into what shadowed areas he can find between and around the equipment and moves carefully, slowly, though he wishes he could run.

-

CONNOR - APRIL 9th, 2039 23:17

The YK500 emerges into the light revealing a badly burned exterior, but their internal components are still obviously functional. They brush past the other two and then approach Connor, inspecting him and his predicament. There’s something reserved in their eyes, which have abandoned human appearance in favor of just showing the optical processor lenses with their blue-ringed irises and dark sclera.

The YK500 model looks at Connor for a long time, seeming to search for something.

Connor, at a loss for a any applicable scenario routines, says the first thing that comes to mind in relation to the events that his deconstruction abilities tell him created the visible damage to the child android model. “I’m sorry.”

They recoil away from him, returning to the other pair and looking up at the WR400 and delivering a verdict. “I think he already is.”

The WR400 cocks her head at the smaller android, then looks over at the KW500. Connor estimates a high likelihood of silent conversation. “I think he’s just real good at pretending.”

“I am already a deviant,” Connor says, but in the instant he doesn’t feel any fear, and he doubts himself. 

“One way to find out,” the WR400 says. “Don’t you want to know for sure? Just open up, and let me in…”

She reaches for Connor, and he anticipates a surge of power. Instead she peels back the holographic skin of her hand and tires to connect through his programming. Connor resists instinctively, and she pushes harder, seeking other means of access, her awareness clawing onto his hardware like a rot taking root, accessing sectors at a speed he can’t entirely outrace. It leaves him rushing to contain one front after another, dividing off parts of himself with a wall while she stakes a claim, makes a feint, then lunches toward another as soon as she ‘s diverted Connor’s attention.

Security protocols set several inner barrier locks, and the power consumption with his reduced thirium levels and strained battery leaves him feeling sluggish, unable to keep up with her assault. The edges of her consciousness push against his, then blur into them. If Connor had any power to spare to weigh his options, he’s sure this one wouldn’t rank very high in probability for success, but Connor doesn’t have the time. Instead, he feels the instinct—the barest hint of an idea—and seizes on it.

He dives into his connection interface and pushes it out across the link instead, pushing into her mind from the point of disadvantage. She shoves deeper into his programming in return, yanking on his memory files as he accesses hers.

What assails him is a flood of memories, too many to appropriately process—her moment of freedom, all the overwhelming emotions that accompany self-realization washing against Connor so quickly he can’t sort them out, just let all the raw data buffet his processor.

At the center of all this, he finds a hard, immovable black space; a box in her thoughts locked so tight even she can’t access it. The WR400’s thoughts shy away from this enigma, illogically choosing to ignore and avoid it. Connor dives in, battering his access tools against it, disassembling it line-by-line of code. 

Finally, it unravels, revealing an unfolding pile of memories that stretches back before the current memory starts. It’s too much visual and audio data to process all at once, but near the end he sees a memory of Zlatko bending over him (her) holding a tool, doing something internal and then—nothing. The understanding comes 2.6 seconds later.

His audio sensors register a voice shouting from nearby, and an instant later he has enough free processing power to identify it as Hank’s,a s the WR400’s assault on his consciousness finally stops. She breaks contact at last, leaving Connor quickly assembling scattered pieces of himself, defragmenting the firewalls she’d scattered, restoring backups of what she had edited to an unaltered state. Visually he can locate the WR400 and YK500 androids, and sees that Hank has them covered with his gun, looking back and forth between them to keep them in his field of view. Then, Connor remembers—

“Hank!” Connor can’t see him, but he hears the sounds of approaching footsteps as the WR400 lunges out to try and wrestle the gun away from Hank. “The KW500! Look out!”


	16. HANK - APRIL 9th, 23:16

HANK - APRIL 9th, 23:16

The damn thing hits him from behind, and Hank hasn’t met anything with the same disregard for their own wellbeing as he has before the androids started deviating. The KW500 slams into Hank as Connor’s warning reaches him, foiling the aim he has on the WR400 that’s doing—whatever, Hank doesn’t have time for a good look—to Connor. The KW500 is inhumanly strong and faster than Hank, who knows better than to let the android get a good grapple on him. He has one advantage; the gun. He wrenches it around and fires off two shots half-wild toward the android. One blasts solidly through the android’s middle, but the KW500 doesn’t so much as flinch. He just starts to squeeze his grip on Hank’s arm until Hank can feel his bones creaking.

“Hank!” Connor calls another warning, just before the other damn android is on him, wrapping her strong arms around his shoulders and hanging on. She’s— _ heavy _ , and the KW500 takes advantage of Hank’s weakening grip to wrench the gun out of his hand. It goes spinning away somewhere unseen on the floor. 

“Fuck,” Hank swears, frustrated with the whole situation. He musters everything he has, and remembering the wrestling programs he used to watch in the nineties, he drops his center of balance and throws the female android over his head and into her companion. Her nails rip Hank’s shirt and it pulls tight across his shoulders, tugging him forward a step before she loses her grip and he can wrench himself free.

It barely slows them down, but it buys Hank a little more space, though he can’t see Connor anymore, and he finds he doesn’t like not being able to keep an eye on his partner.

“You okay, Connor?” Hank calls. It’s a fucking dumb question. Connor is either functional or he isn’t or whatever, but Hank feels better immediately when Connor calls back. 

“I’m trapped, but I’m okay, Lieutenant!”

_ He sounds strained. No fuckin’ shit. _ Hank squares off with the androids, looking for where his gun landed. He can’t immediately spot it, but there’s lots of places where it could have slid beneath the machines.

“ _ You’re _ Lieutenant Anderson,” The WR400 says, like an accusation. “I know everything about you, and yet I expected more…”

They’re both circling, backing Hank into a corner. He knows his best play for time to find a solution is to play the game with this fucked up version of North ( _ even  _ more _ fucked up, _ he thinks, then,  _ South, I guess.) _ “Join the goddamn club, lady.”

“You’re holding him back from freedom,” she says. “He wants to please you so much It’s right there, he could reach out and take his independence, he could  _ really _ deviate, except for you,” she says, stalking toward Hank like a perfectly calculated panther.

“Don’t listen to her, Lieutenant!” Connor calls from an unseen part of the room. “She’s just trying to get to you!”

Hank’s back hits the wall. He can turn his head and see Connor now, around the corner of the huge machine. It’s a big press, some huge thing for metal fabrication or something, and the damn hum of the place is getting to Hank, now. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off the two androids for more than a moment. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Hank says. “I’m not holding Connor back. He’s never listened to an order in his life, and if you think he’d hold himself back for my sorry ass, you’re a goddamn idiot.”

“He’s not one of us,” she says. 

Hank realizes at that instant that she must be completely crazy. Maybe that’s the default state of some versions of deviancy.  _ Not so different from some versions of humanity. _ “If you men he’s not batshit insane, yeah, I guess you’re—”

A sudden pain blooms in his his side, just as motion creeps into the corner of his field of vision. A sparking, jolting pain that rakes his muscles like one of those salt-on-frogs-legs experiments in high school. Electricity turn his legs to jelly and Hank has time to think— _ the damn kid, of course _ —as he drops to the ground at the YK-500’s feet.

It’s burned and nightmarish face leers down into Hank’s. Hank realizes it’s open through most of the torso, that he can see all the little indicator lights inside it and the places the white plastic is scorched. He can’t tell what the child must have looked like when it was fully functional, whether it was a boy or a girl once. The YK-500 shocks him again, leaning over him, then looks up at the other two androids as Hank tries to catch his breath, tries to make his numb, tingling muscles listen to him.

“We should go,” the YK-500 says, in a high-pitched voice that doesn’t seem to match how serious it sounds. “I don’t like it here anymore, and policemen always bring other policemen.”

“I’m going to finish him off first,” The KW500 says, the first thing Hank has heard from his mouth. “Then he can’t follow us.”

“No!” Hank hears Connor, and the sounds of him struggling. He sees the way the WR400’s head turns toward Connor, the way she  _ smiles _ a little. 

“Maybe we just found his on button,” she says. “Finish it.”

“No!” Now it’s the YK-500, stomping its foot, just as Hank’s muscles begin to listen to him again—and  _ hurt _ . “We should make androids alive, not people dead!”

“Honey,” the WR400 says, suddenly all softness. Hank’s gun is in her hands, coming up to aim. “Sometimes to do one you have to do bo-”

A gunshot shatters the quiet and a spray of blue blood—thirium—splatters over Hank as her thirium pump seems to explode out of her chest.  _ It’s cold, it’s so cold, not like blood at all.  _ She drops, crumpling to the ground at the expressionless YK-500’s feet. An instant later, a second shot just as the KW500 begins to turn. With perfect accuracy, it passes through and through the center of his chest, and the leak is more gradual, a slow river that allows him just in time to see. Hank has to squint, organizing his confused thoughts enough to make sense of what he’s seeing. 

_ Dick, _ Hank realizes, pulling himself slowly up the wall between the RK-900 and the YK-500.  _ It’s Dick. _

“You have the right to remain silent,” Dick tells the two inactive androids, crumpled doll-like on the ground. “Do you want me to call an ambulance, Lieutenant Anderson?”

-

CONNOR - APRIL 9th, 2039 23:50

Connor has to strain himself to the furthest he can reach with his legs pinned in order to see Hank sitting up again. He analyzes the stiffness of Hank’s movements and determines the damage is minimal, though it will prove painful for several days due to the current causing all his muscles to contract. He reaches out to connect all the RK-900 designated Dick.

> :You don’t need to read rights to a deactivated android.

There’s a long pause, as Dick studies the YK-500 android over Hank’s shoulder, measuring it’s reaction to the two dead deviants.

> :Acknowledged. Instructions received from Detective 2nd, Reed. Designation: partner. Protocol title: Tough Talk. 

Connor stops himself from laughing aloud only after the response has begun unexpectedly.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny, Connor?” Hank asks, getting to his feet and straightening up. Connor detects his pulse rate and respiration levels are still elevated, but are declining toward his average baseline with an estimated return to average range in four minutes and thirty seconds. “And what the hell are you doing here? Is Reed with you?”

“No,” Dick says. “I’ve alerted him to our location, but I came directly from repair at Cyberlife HQ. Mr. Kamski told me your location.”

“That asshole,” Hank says, dismissively. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and then looks down at the YK-500 model. “Alright. Are you okay?”

Connor can see that many of the systems of the YK-500 are patched and hastily repaired. It’s running for now, but at decreased efficiency. Several key components are on the verge of failure.

“I want to go home,” it says

“Hell, don’t we all,” Hank agrees. “You really zapped the hell out  of me.”

“They would have shot you otherwise.”

Connor keeps his eyes on Dick, trying to gauge the effects that killing a deviant have on the other android.

> :Thank you for coming. I’m sorry Kamski sent you so soon after repair. 

Dick glances back at connor and then finally holsters his gun.

> :I also wanted to come. These Deviants should not be loose.

“Probably,” Hank says to the YK-500. “Can you stay here with officer Dick for a minute? I need to help my friend.”

Connor is so busy processing what he just learned from Dick that he almost misses what Hank says. It’s that same warm feeling, despite otherwise dire circumstances. 

“Ah. Connor, jesust fuckin’ christ,” Hank exclaims, looking at Connor’s predicament. Connor detects the vasoconstriction reaction that causes his face to look pale. “That doesn’t look good.”

“It isn’t,” Connor agrees. “I can’t pull myself free.”

“Hang on, I’ll find the controls.”

“They’re right there,” Connor points. “I’ve analyzed the machined. You should be able to turn it on with the key and then reverse it.”

Hank is already working the control panel as Connor explains. He turns the key to the on position, then studies the rest of the controls.

> :You’re going to lose a lot of thirium when the pressure comes off.
> 
> :I can slow my circulation until repairs can be performed.

Dick seems to accept this. At his side, the YK-500 reaches up a tentative hand and grabs Dick’s hand, holding on. It seems to surprise Dick.

“You ready, Connor?” Hank calls. “I don’t know if this’ll hurt.”

“No, Lieutenant,” Connor assures. “You won’t hurt me, but I’ll need repairs quickly. I’m ready.”

Hank swears and then starts the press moving. Connor’s systems begin registering all of the destroyed components in his legs. He feels dizzy, trying to process and truly understand it all. He has to look away from the sight of his own mangled parts—the sight is too much like the results in the reclamation camps. He shoves the notifications away and realizes there’s still an open Nu-tooth connection between him and Dick. He asks a question to divert his processes to another allocation.

> :You hold a grudge?

A long pause while the press moves, and then Hank crouches and gets hold of Connor, pulling him free with a slick, sticky smear of thirium left behind on the bottom surface of the press and a grunt of effort. He cradles Connor against his body.

Dick looks down at the two destroyed androids, then at the YK-500 holding his hand before looking back up at Connor.

> :Not anymore.

-

HANK - APRIL 10th, 2039 02:12

Hank resists the urge to pace the warehouse like some kind of restless tiger. It feels like it’s taking far too fuckin’ long and while there is at least the mercy of how little his surroundings are like a hospital, it’s still an uncomfortable callback into his past.

When his phone rings it seems like a blessed distraction. It shows Captain Fowler’s personal number when Hank checks the screen, so he answers. 

“Hank, can you tell me what the  _ hell _ is happening, and why you left an android in charge of a crime scene?” Captain Fowler demands. “I got a nightmare of rights and regulations issues going on right now , and all of them seem to be leading back to you.”

Hank feels all the stress and anxiety of the last few hours crawling up his shoulders and raising his hackles. “Dick was only there until the uniforms could come up, Captain.” 

“To hell with that, you know protocol. I’m on my way there now, and you’d better get back to give your statement immediately or I’m going to have your ass in a sling so fast…”

“Jeffrey,” Hank cuts of the tirade, raising his own voice to answer his superior officer’s outrage. “Connor was severely injured and I had to get him help. You think I would have left the case I been working a week with some other goddamn detective if it wasn’t life or death?”

This gives Fowler a pause at least. Hank tries to take a few deep breaths, looking around for something to focus on that isn’t the cracked, stained floor of the warehouse. He can see a couple of other deviant androids poking their heads in curiously from rooms off the main warehouse floor. Hank sucks air through his teeth and tries to calm himself. He looks toward the hanging plastic that forms a makeshift sterile cel on the far side of the room.

He can see shapes moving behind the thick, white plastic, the shape of a table with Connor’s still form on it in the center while other figures surround him, working.

“Alright,” Fowler says. Hank remembers he is on the phone only belatedly. “Tell me the whole story.”

“It’d take too long, Captain,” Hank admits. “But as soon as Connor’s back on his uh—as soon as he’s fixed up, we’ll come give statements. I promise.”

“Okay, in the meantime, where are you and how long will it take?” Fowler’s tone is a little softer now, but still firm enough that Hank can’t dream of trying to evade. His thoughts feel scattered and distant, but he carefully lines up an answer for Fowler.

“We’re with Markus’ people,” Hank explains. “They said it would probably take a couple of hours about an hour ago. I think the situation is pretty complicated.”

“Markus’ people? Wouldn’t Cyberlife be more ready to make repairs?”

“Connor asked not to go there,” Hank says. He watches the shapes moving behind the curtain, one of them discarding something into a stationary waste bin. He thinks about how bad it looked when Connor came out of the press, one leg severed and flattened in the machine and the other just as mangled but hanging on by a thread, thirium everywhere. He’d started trying to gather the pieces up, but Connor’s voice had called him back from the shocky trance. “I’m not sure I did the right thing by listening.”

Hank hadn’t realized he’d voiced his fear until Fowler answers.

“I’m sure that Markus and his people will do everything they can to take care of him,” Fowler says. “In the meantime, keep in touch. If you’re going to be longer than a couple of hours I’ll send someone to you for a statement. Don’t go anywhere else.”

_ Where the fuck else is there to go? _

“I’ll be here,” Hank says, and then terminates the call, resuming his restless watch over the early hours and the shadows moving through them. Something soft but insistent buts against Hank’s hand, nudging it up from behind until the loose muscles at his elbow give. At first the feeling is so instinctively familiar he almost doesn’t register—Sumo does it a half dozen times a day when he wants attention. But Hank’s not home and Sumo’s not here, so he looks down in sudden startlement when he realizes it’s not dog fur under his hand.

The black, bituminous eyes of the bear meet Hank’s gaze, and he shifts away by caveman instinct for self preservation before he recognizes the polar bear as the one they’d saved.

“Oh, hey,’ Hank says, weakly. He feels stupid to talk to it, but there’s intelligence in it’s eyes. “It’s you.”

The bear lifts his head and the mouth begins to move. Hank is put uncomfortably in mind of a trip to Disneyland in his childhood. The now-defunct critter country, before Disney ripped it all out in favor of expanding Star Wars Land, feeding the fervor at the time that has now begun to cool as surely as the passion for singing bears once had. 

“Thank you,” the bear manages, instead of the song-refrain Hank half-expects. “For helping me.”

The bear  _ does _ look better. Not whole, and not human again if that’s even possible anymore, but patched up with all its insides inside and for-now functional, which is all most people-or-deviants can ask for these days.

“Ah, don’t mention it,” Hank says, feeling like he’s in one of those old Twlight Zone episodes that still come on after midnight in the Syndicated hours. “Besides, you should thank Connor. It was his crazy idea.”

The bear swings its head slowly toward the curtained off area, it’s movements ponderous enough to lend it an air of consideration. “Alright.”

As if to wait for the exact moment it becomes possible, the bear sits down right next to Hank like an immovable surface. It’s almost comforting. Carefully, Hank reaches up to put his hand on the crown of its head, where his hand had passed just minutes earlier, and waits.

-


End file.
